Family Album
by Dragon Of Ash
Summary: A family is more than blood. An album is more than a collection of pictures; it is a collection of stories of a family struggling to find its way in life. This is a story about the lives of the Gilmore Girls, starting from the 'breakup' in mid-season five
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. Amy Sherman-Paladino and the WB do. I make no claims to owning them. I do, however, wish I could live in Stars Hollow. That'd be keen. _

Chapter One

Rory Gilmore sat at the table in the small coffee shop on Peach, a thick book, its pages and cover worn through years of use, was clutched tightly in her frail hands. Outside the modest warmth of the coffee shop, freezing rain came down in sheets, filling the night air with needles of ice and covered the roads in a slick patina. It turned the once comforting and quaint road—a rare thing in the bustle of downtown Boston—into a treacherous skating rink. Some would fondly call this time of year "early spring" and attribute it some romantic conceit of burgeoning love and a return to life. She, however, simply called it "hellish".

The air was cold and the wind frigid; not even the relative warmth of the coffee shop could fully drive the chill from her bones. She brought her mug to her lips and took a lengthy sip of its steaming contents, not bothering to blow on the scalding liquid. This time of year seemed to be the ugliest, worse, even than late fall when the world was filled with the reek of dying leaves. Then, vibrant colors filled the sky and the crisp air and ground crackled with the anticipation of winter. This time of year, however, was about waiting: waiting for a return of life, of beauty. It seemed she had spent a great deal of her time waiting: waiting to go to the school that would allow her to achieve her dreams; waiting for love; waiting to become the woman she hoped to be. It seemed fitting to Rory, as she waited in the small coffee shop on Peach, that she was waiting for _him_. She was always waiting for him. Now, after driving two hours from New Haven through freezing rain, because he _had_ to talk to her, she was left waiting for him. Again.

Her father rushed into the shop bearing an apologetic grin and shaking ice pellets from his sportily styled hair. As quickly as he appeared, he was gone out of sight behind an influx of caffeine-addicted cattle. Rory muttered a soft "moo" and then mentally kicked her shin for allowing herself to become so spiteful. She took another sip of her mug and offered a wan smile as the man walked to her table carrying two steaming cups and another grin—apologetic, still, although holding a hint of that rakish charm he knew had served him so well in the past.

"How's the coffee?" He shrugged his jacket off onto the back of his chair and looked at her expectantly.

"It's dark. It smells like coffee. It looks like coffee." Her voice was light and airy as she carefully guarded her previous morose thoughts beneath a blanket of comfortable banter.

"Comparison stops there?" Christopher laughed and sipped at his own drink. "Gotta admit, this place is nothing like that shop you showed me at Yale. But, there chai lattes aren't that bad."

"Is that what this is?" She sniffed the odd drink her father had set on the table before her.

"Yup. It's not espresso or anything that could sustain a Gilmore Girl, but it's still nice." He took another sip from his steaming drink.

"It's barely even coffee!"

"It's got coffee; it's just smooth and contains Thai spiced tea. How can you deny the goodness of the chai latte?" Indignation ran clear in his voice. How could she insult the sweet smoothness of his favorite drink? Coffee was boring. Bitter and boring. Chai was spicy and sweet. Obviously, it was better.

"It's a bastardization of all that I hold dear!"

"Or, it's an improvement on an already perfect form, thus making it _more_ perfect than the already pre-determined perfection of the previously agreed upon perfect form that is coffee."

"That's impossible. You can't have anything be more perfect than perfect. It's an absolute like wet, or bright, or dark."

"Those are all relative—your "bright" and my "bright" could be two different levels of bright."

"Even still, you were the one extending the relative quality beyond itself. You can't trump your own trump. Angelina can not be a better match than Jennifer." She laughed into her mug and allowed the levity to mask the sting of her coffee and the vile concoction sitting untouched before her, mocking her with its trendy sickly-sweet smoothness.

Christopher laughed along with his daughter, confident that they could reconcile, now that the pain from Emily and Richard's wedding was over. "Just try the latte! Your life will be changed forever!"

"Fine." She pouted, playing along with the game. Rory drank from her cup, and winced in agony as she forced herself to swallow. "Please don't make my try any more. That stuff is an abomination to God!"

"What are you talking about? These things are great!" He took another hearty sip as proof of his point.

"I'm positive that it's one of the tortures Dante described. Right up there with Yanni and _Ulysses_!" She set the cup back on the table, and drew her hand back quickly as though the object burned her with its impurity. "Whoever thought of that stuff is a sadist!"

"Coffee tastes aside; I came here to talk to you." He looked down at his hands, his lopsided grin faltering a bit. "I need you to understand that I love you and your mom, and that I never meant to hurt you two."

"But you did." She could not look at him. She could not bear to see the effect her words would have. "You came, and you hurt her. And me."

"I never meant, Rory, you gotta…"

"That's just it. You never _mean_ to, but you always do." Her eyes followed the pattern on the table in a pathetic attempt at ignoring the pang her words caused. "You always hurt us."

"Rory, I know I haven't been the greatest farther in the world, but I'm still your dad. I still love you and your mom." He reached across the table to hold her hand and mend the rift his carelessness had caused. She ripped her hand away, and he grabbed only air.

"You, you, you. Your love, your needs." She clutched her napkin to her lap, her knuckles whitened with the force of her grip. "You want us to be a family, _you _need me to understand. What about me? What about mom? Where do we fit in your life?"

"With me." Christopher's words were plain, simple. For once the sporty grin was absent from his lips and his eyes were devoid of mirth and left only a tinge of fear and sorrow. In that gaze, the sad, blank stare of a boy lost in a very grown up world he could not comprehend, Rory saw a portion of the man her mother once loved, and why she could never be with him. He was a dreamer constantly searching for the conceits of a time long since passed, a time that could never be.

"Not anymore." Christopher flinched, her words wounding him deeper than anything before. "I doubt we ever did. I used to think that you and mom were meant to be and I never understood why you never put the pieces together. Now, I know."

"Rory, I'm your dad!" His voice rose to a plaintive and indignant squeak. "A girl should have her dad!"

"You're right; a girl should have a dad." She wiped her eyes and cursed the traitorous tears that fell. "But, a dad doesn't disappear for most of your life; a dad doesn't forget your birthday, or promise things and then ask for his daughter to cover for him when he can't follow through. He doesn't try to ruin the best thing that's ever happened to my mom. And, he doesn't promise to be with his daughter and her mom only to run back to his _fiancée _to start a new life with his new family!" She released her napkin and slumped back in her chair as she let out a sigh, embarrassed and exhausted from her speech. Judging from the stares that filled the room, she had grown quite loud.

"Rory, I…"

She waved a dismissive hand, cutting him off. "A dad wouldn't set up a meeting with his daughter in crappy weather and then make her wait a half hour before he showed up." Rory stood and wrapped her coat about her slight frame. "I've waited for years for you, Christopher." Her father recoiled at his name. "I'm tired of waiting."

"Rory, I…" Christopher's mouth worked mutely, an odd incoherent squeak the only reward for his efforts.

"I had a dad. Because of you, he might be gone. And… and just stay away from us!" She ran from the quaint coffee shop on Peach in downtown Boston, frantically wiping at the tears threatening to fall. A few moments later, she rushed back in to retrieve the book she had left forgotten on the table. "I'll see you in two weeks to hang out with G.G.!" She ran away again to her car and sped off.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Rory drove the stretch of highway between Boston and the sleepy hamlet of Stars Hollow blinking away at bitter tears. The roads were treacherous, and her tires squealed with every curve of the road. Nevertheless, she needed to see her family, to know that she was loved, and had not thrown away a part of her precious life. She barely paused at the sign for Hartford. Emily Gilmore was the _last _person she wanted to see now. She had never understood her mother's distaste with her grandparents, had, in fact, thought that Lorelei had brought many of her woes on herself with her self-proclaimed "need to be free". Coke commercials aside, Rory could now say she saw the side her mother only hinted at: the conniving and scheming Gilmores, too preoccupied with Society (capital 'S' because it was _that _important) thought and Appearance and Duty, they forgot that their family mattered. Was that really a life she wanted to belong to?

A deafening "yes" echoed in the deep shadows of her mind. They were her family, and to be a part of them meant being in that world. It was more as a silent committal that she would not be a social climbing snob than for any benefit it might provide to her wavering concentration that she shook her head and put a CD into the stereo. She needed noise, music, anything to distract her from her chaotic thoughts. Even the twangy and half-formed notes of complaint early 90's college rock would be welcomed now.

_"Nibblin' on sponge cake/ watchin' the sun bake,"_ she laughed at the irony: Luke's mix CD, labeled, of course, as the "Luke CD." It was intended as a gag gift for the laconic diner man, since Lorelei had uncovered the damning Jimmy Buffet shirt in his closet. Naturally, she and Rory had decided that a folk and country CD was needed to celebrate the complete mockability of Luke. Thus the Luke CD was made and given (with an extended Luke Rant on the evils of the music industry—greedy bastards—and CD burners—run by cheap-ass punks hell-bent on bringing about the fall of Capitalism with their piracy) and, of course, copied because it was a thing of Perfect Mock (Luke had put them on decaf for a week after a day of constant teasing). Words blurred into incomprehensible jangles as she unseeingly sped down the road into the wintry night.

Rory drove on autopilot, unsure of where to go. She dismissed staying at home, her mom would wonder what was wrong, and she would tell her which, of course, would only upset her. Nor could she go to Lane's or Sookie's, either. Sookie had the baby, and would tell Lorelai. Lane would encourage her to tell her mom. Besides, Lane had Zach, and that brought up the same issue she faced with Sookie. She briefly considered going to Dean; she had always been able to confide in him. However, the sting of their breakup was still fresh, and there were no uncertain terms about how they had left things. He would be supportive, because that was Dean, but support would lead to feelings (as it had in the past), which would lead to a whole other assortment of problems. Besides, running to her ex-boyfriend to cry about her splintering family life was probably the definition of "pathetic." Logan was thrown out as quickly as was Dean, for similar reasons.

"God, when did my life become such a mess?" She stopped at a light, the only stoplight in Stars Hollow and looked to her right. _Luke's_ stood empty and dark against the shining streetlamps. She had never seen something more inviting in her life.

Somehow (she did not know the exact path, but she assumed her feet had something to do with the process), Rory found herself pounding on Luke's door, wincing as the aged wood scratched her hands. She stepped back in mid-knock as brilliant fluorescent light filled the small eatery and the man himself stood scowling in the doorway.

The scowl melted instantly into concern when he recognized his late night visitor. He stepped back into the diner and ushered her in as he flipped on the coffee pot. "It'll be a few minutes. You want pancakes?'

She smiled at that. Luke could always tell when things were wrong; something Christopher never could figure out with her. Rory took the time while Luke was in the kitchen to survey the place she had come to think of as a second home. The specials were the same as they were before she left (Luke's "special" omelet) chairs and tables were exactly where they used to be. The talking pork chop was missing, though. It was probably a casualty of some child's screaming. The diner seemed to have moved on to life without Lorelei. The diner owner, however, showed signs of wear. His eyes were haggard and sunken; hallow points staring out from black circles set deep in their sockets. His face was more drawn and tired, the ever-present stubble no longer a reminder of his gruff and surly nature. It was long and unkempt, trapped in that gray, nebulous area between "beard" and "growth" which could only be called "roughage." It lent him the image of a man defeated by life.

"Here you go. Blueberry pancakes with chocolate sprinkles, extra whipped cream, and the good syrup." He put a plate in front of her, piled high with steaming fluffy pancakes, and quickly moved a way, broom in hand, to swipe imaginary dust from the floor.

Rory smiled again; comfort food and the time to eat it. There was no problem that Luke could not fix with a full cup of coffee and a pile of pancakes. It gave her hope that he could mend the rift that this latest fight between him and her mom had caused. She ate in silence, content to mull over her own thoughts with Luke sweeping on the periphery. At some point, he had replaced her plate with a danish, and still there was silence. By her third danish, and fifth cup of coffee, Rory felt her nerves steady enough for words to form. "I went to Boston today."

Luke's eyes narrowed and his back tensed. There was only one reason why Rory would go to Boston: _him_. "Oh."

"Tonight, actually. I left there and came straight here."

His hands tightened on the broomstick, its creak in protest filled the silent diner. "What! In this weather? Of all the…" He took a deep calming breath. He obviously had realized that a Luke Rant was not what she need now.

"He said he wanted to talk, to apologize for… for everything." Hot coffee splashed over her fingers as she took a steadying sip. "So I went. I drove from New Have in freezing rain, and he wasn't there." She frantically wiped at the burning liquid searing into her fingers. "He was late. I was sitting in this stupid coffee shop drinking the worst coffee I had ever tasted in my life, and I couldn't help but think that I had _always _been sitting in that stupid coffee shop. I was always waiting for him. He showed up, thirty minutes late, and tried to give me this horrible chai latte thing—which only made things worse."

"Of course. If something's going to kill you it should at least taste good."

"Exactly! Then he said that he was my dad and that he wanted us to be a family, and… and I just snapped. I told him a dad doesn't make his daughter wait for twenty years to be a family. He doesn't promise to make things work and then run off to start a new family with someone else." Tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with the bitter liquid in her cup. "A dad shows up to your graduation without being asked. A dad remembers your birthday every year. A dad makes mashed potatoes for you when you have the chicken pox, or pancakes when you're sad. He protects you and tries to make things better when everything in your life is falling apart."

Luke stared at her, the broomstick forgotten in his hands.

"And, and I need to know. Do I still have a Dad?" The tears that had so unnerved him but moments before were wiped away with gentle thumbs as she clutched at his chest.

"I'm sure things will be okay between you two. Give it some time." Rory smiled at the growl he unsuccessfully tried to hide in his voice. She was glad he had at least made the attempt. It proved to her how much her happiness mattered to him.

"To Hell with him!" Rory buried her face deeper into his chest. "He's not my dad. He never was. He's not… he can't… He doesn't make me feel safe." She looked at him through tear-reddened eyes. "He's not the one trying to make me feel better right now."

"What?" He looked at her dumbstruck, unable to comprehend the full weight of her words.

"And, I want to know. Are you my Dad? Or, have I lost you too?"

"Rory, I'm not going anywhere. You will _always _have me." He smiled down at her and pressed his capped forehead to hers. "That is if you want me…"

"I do, Luke, I really do." Rory smiled the first real smile she had since Luke and her mom had broken up.

"Ah, well good. Look, it's late, you should go to bed. Your mom's gonna be worried as it is. She's probably called you twice already."

"Three times, while I was in the car. I couldn't answer, though. I didn't want to upset her." She wiped at her eyes as she tried to regain a measure of composure. "Besides, I can't go home, not like this. It'll just upset her and then I'll tell her about Christopher, which'll just make her even more upset."

"Then stay. Here. Tonight." He ran his hand though his hair, preparing to go into another rant. "Look, the roads are awful—it's a wonder you didn't drive off into a ditch getting here. The weather isn't much better, and I have a bed here that no one's using anyways. We'll call your mom, tell her you're fine and you'll see her tomorrow, and… and you can stay here." He ran his hand through his hair again as he lost his steam.

"You're sure it's OK?" Rory called after him as he started up the stairs.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't." He stopped on his way and looked over his shoulder. "You coming up, or are you sleeping on the tables?"

She grinned and ran after him. She had a _Dad._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Like clockwork, Luke Danes awoke at a quarter to five as he did every morning. He softly cursed as he turned off the clock before the alarm sounded. Rory needed to sleep. A warm gooey feeling suffused his being, something he was not at all used to, but was oddly comforted by. She had chosen _him_, Luke Danes, the guy that didn't matter, over that punk in Boston. He liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.

The previous night had been such a chaotic blur of emotions for him that he had hardly slept. He had always been a creature of habit and cherished order above all things. Emotions were _not_ orderly. He could not control them, or deal with them. In truth, he preferred not to have them at all. Things were simpler that way. He liked simplicity. Last night, things became complicated.

He had had no knowledge of crossing the distance between him and the waifish child who had been trying so hard to be strong. Yet, he had clutched her to his chest. It had felt easy, natural, to be holding her in his arms and stroking her hair with odd shushing sounds coming from his lips. He had never presumed to put himself in that position, where the girl he considered his daughter would be crying into his flannel shirt. He was not that kind of guy. He was more the gruff awkward guy in the back of the room, who said nothing, but made the comfort food and fixed the house. He was not a _Dad_. Dads were… protective, firm, stern, loving, and strong. And right then, as he had held in his arms the girl he wished was his, he had felt anything but strong. He had felt weak. And angry. Very angry. He had wanted to punch Christopher, repeatedly in the face. Maybe use his sledgehammer for good measure.

Luke growled softly and pulled on his pants. Yes, beating Christopher to a pulp would be good. Hell, it would be a blast. The jerk certainly deserved it for everything he had done to Rory and Lorelai. He could almost feel the pretty boy's neck in his hands. He roughly shook his head to rid himself of the image. It was not right to think about hurting Christopher when he was supposed to be taking care of Rory. He had other things to do.

Luke sighed as he trudged down the stairs. He almost cursed the false-dawn light that heralded the coming of morning. The dull light of the odd purple-pink sky painted the streets and buildings in brittle March colors of gray and faded violet making the world seem hollow and empty. He filled a pot with water from the coffee maker, taking extra care with the pitted glass dish, and worn machinery. Dawn would come and make these things seem new and fresh once more; but here, now, all pretences were washed clean by the zodiacal lights of the pre-dawn hour and everything showed itself for what it truly was: faded, dull, and dying. Dying, not dead, though. Never dead. The false dawn did not allow for such tenderness and mercies as death; there was no end in existence, everything lingered in a procession to, but never achieving, complete oblivion. He chuckled bitterly at the irony that such truths could be revealed by a lie.

He wondered how long he had lingered in that march. If he asked, he knew people would say that they could not remember a time without him in Stars Hollow. The old—those people furthest in the cortege—may know of it, and speak of such a thing in hushed almost reverent tones. _The time before Luke_ was almost mythical; he was such a staple in the town community. He doubted even he could conceive of such a time. He had always been and would remain in Stars Hollow. At times such as these, during the revealing light of the deceitful brilliance, he would half-believe himself eternal, progressing no further in the decent to entropy.

He overturned the pot of hot water onto Rory's car and watched the boiling liquid melt the sheen of ice encasing the lock. Steam billowed out in thick clouds, flashing briefly in the cruel false light before succumbing to the inevitable fate of all things. Entropy won again.

But not with _them_. Never _them._ They did not rot or decay. They developed, evolved, grew. They sparkled and shown with the light of a thousand stars. Their light was neither cruel nor deceitful. His girls—they _were_ his, and would always be, no matter what happened—filled the world with magic and mystery. They alone from the entire world withstood the inexorable march and frolicked, danced, and sparkled through life, returning each day to the beginning of the procession fresh, new, and clean. For a time, brief and unbelievable, Luke was a part of that dance, no longer eternally watching others walk to oblivion, but running forever chasing the light of _his girls_ as the Vikings of old heeded the alluring draw and patterns of the stars, to join them in their cyclic dance of rebirth and joy.

Now, he stood once more against the onslaught of the throng. Eternal.

He tipped the pot one last time over the car, feeling a small sliver of satisfaction in witnessing Entropy's defeat just this once. _His girl _would be waking soon, and he needed to take care of her.

Dawn, true dawn, filled the small apartment above the diner with warmth and beauty by the time Luke made his way back into the kitchen. With its light, Entropy receded to the dark, shadowed places of the room, and seemed to leave the apartment mended and whole. Luke gave a bitter laugh at the sun's deceitful veracity and set bowls from the cupboard on the table. Color, in all its lying beauty, returned to the apartment; things were brighter, fuller, and warmer than before. He acted on instincts uncovered trough years of practice, and assembled a feast for the wan girl slumbering in his nephew's abandoned bed. Pancakes—extra blueberries with boysenberry sauce and topped twitch heavy whipped cream--, bacon, eggs with cheese and toast with four kinds of jellies all battled for occupancy on the dinner plate he prepared for her. He stifled a grimace at the array of food he had put together. It really was a sickening display of artery-clogging gluttony. Was Rory's happiness worth the heart failure that was sure to find her thirty years down the road?

"Hell yes."

He would give anything for _his girls_. Anything to make them happy, to make them smile. If that meant enabling them in their addictions, then so be it.

He poured a cup of coffee—another addiction—and set it on the small table beside her head, then returned to the kitchen for his own meal. HE considered opening the diner early, but thought better of it. He was in no mood to deal with people and Rory certainly did not need any of the town crazies pestering her with questions.

She had stopped dancing enough.

He hastily scribbled a "Gone Fishing" sign in black baker's pen and taped it to the diner door. People would probably gather around the door and stare in awe at the sign, pondering the ramifications. Was Luke sick? Was Luke really fishing? Was Luke still grieving? He doubted anyone did not know the answer to the last question. His food was testimony enough. Factor in his volatile temper, and even greater surly disposition, and even Kirk could connect the dots. Eventually. With plenty of time and patience.

He shook his head in dismay at the insanity of his town. There was nothing he could do for them, Kirk least of all, and trudged back up stairs. He stubbed his toe on the way and winced as his tool belt crashed to the floor. Luke carefully picked the noisome object from the oaken boards of and returned it to the table, tiptoeing as he worked. Every motion was exaggerated and deliberate, like a baby or old man who is unsure of how its body functions. Yet the damage was done, and _his girl_ groaned the first uttering of protest as wakefulness scrabbled for purchase against her eyelids.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Rory awoke to the delicious smell of pancakes and bacon. And coffee. Delicious, wonderful, glorious, coffee. This was odd because her mother _never_ cooked, and she did not have a stove in her dorm room. She scrunched her eyes closed and breathed deep the masculine scent that underlined the food, accenting and enhancing the mouth-watering aroma. The room smelled of wood; close, dusty, sunbathed wood; as she imagined an old tool shed or attic would. Tools. She smelled tools next, the sharp metallic tang contrasting nicely with the homey aura of worked pine and oak. Another breath and her journalist's mind began filling in blanks, painting a picture that her eyes did not yet see. The room was made of dark well-oiled hardwood planks that gave a sense of dependability and presence. Hammer and nails, maybe a toolbox, would be stacked neatly in a corner. She grinned and murmured "Bert" before continuing with her description. She smelled vegetables and fruit, tea, and fresh laundry as s she turned over and buried her face in the scratchy fabric of her thick sheets and pillowcase. _Flannel_. She smelled flannel.

She flipped over on to her back and smiled, despite the early morning hour. Rory opened on eye and then the other, like a child anticipating a surprise. A smile danced across her face as she took in the room around her. Luke's apartment—her Father's apartment, she cheerfully corrected herself—surrounded her with its gruff and stern walls. The worn and scuffed oak floorboards of the bedroom reflected and magnified the wan light peaking through the narrow slit in the curtains. The pine wall panels glowed golden with the dawn's first light and transformed the dull gray of the predawn twilight into cheery and warm dawn.

She breathed in deeply again, relishing the combination of scents that filled the apartment. It was a scent of warmth and affection, safety and comfort. Nothing could hurt her there. There were no possessive boyfriends, or self-involved snobs, or inconsiderate goons, or deadbeat dads at Luke's. There was only Luke. Comfortable, dependable, safe Luke. She wished she could stay there forever, and forget about the world outside his four walls. However, she knew she had to face the world. She put on her clothes from yesterday, grimacing at the combined filth from the previous day and the memories from the ill-fated meeting with Christopher.

The tray beside her bed beckoned her with its tantalizing fare, and she attacked it with abandon. Luke's food was perfect as always. The pancakes and bacon and other coronary-inducing delicacies filled her mouth with their goodness. Ironic that she would crave something so bad for her.

"It's what we do." Luke's voice was gruff and quiet from around the corner in the kitchen.

She blushed as she carried her plate with her cup of juice (equal parts grape, apple, orange, and cranberry—her "power juice") balanced precariously between her bacon and eggs. "You heard me." She set her plate on the table with a minimum of spillage. Although, much to Luke's obvious consternation, she popped a juice-laden sausage link into her mouth as she talked.

Actually, she would not have noticed if her entire glass had spilled into her plate. Or cared. It was a trait she and her mother shared: if you've spilled it, clean it up, or make do. Usually, "make do" was the method of choice.

Luke shrugged at her question. "It's quiet, and sound travels." He looked at his own plate, clearly embarrassed by the situation.

"At three hundred and forty-three meters per second, no less." Rory chose to ignore his embarrassment. For once, she put her needs above anyone else's. Besides, they had agreed that he would be her father, and talking to their daughters is what fathers do.

"Is that so?"

"Yup."

"No kidding. Hunh." He grinned at his half of grapefruit. "That the kind of stuff they're teaching you up at that fancy college of yours?"

"Along with obscure authors and pointless trivia." Rory quipped around her mouthful of syrupy pancake. She set her fork down and crossed her hands on the table before her. All quipping aside, it was time to be serious. "What'd you mean?"

"About what?" Luke sipped his tea, unfazed by the rapid mood shift.

" 'It's what we do'. What'd you mean by that?"

"Oh, that." He found himself staring at the wall, his shoes, his plate, anything to avoid meeting the girl's eyes. Serious conversation, any conversation for that matter, was never something at which he excelled. He avoided most conversations, actually. He always thought that when your mouth was open, your brain stops. Now was certainly the case. "We, y'know, people. We want things, lots of things, usually things we shouldn't want or can't have."

"Like vamp nail polish or Alanis Morisette?" Okay, so maybe she could be a little flippant with their discussion. It was too early and too odd to be so weighty.

"I was thinking more like grease or candy or some kind of death car that looks cool but you know is only going to roll over as soon as you get to a tight turn and even though it's got all-wheel drive and brand-new tires it's only going to spin out on anything but ideal condition and probably roll over because the damned thing is so top-heavy that it has the stability of a … I don't know something really big and unstable." He looked up from his plate and saw Rory's saucer-sized eyes. "And now I've scared you."

"It's just that I haven't seen you rant like that in a while. I missed it." It was true. Somehow, seeing Luke froth at the mouth about a topic was comforting. It was familiar, which was something that she desperately needed in her life. One thing struck her, though, throughout his entire monologue—Lorelai. He was describing Lorelai. "She does too." He looked up at her, and now it was his turn to look like a deer in the headlights.

"Misses my rants?" Thinly masked hope rang loud in his voice.

"Misses your everything." _Dirty!_ Rory stifled the grin that naturally came at the double-entendre. Now was not the time to indulge in potty humor.

"She ended it."

"You suggested it."

"Yeah well, she made it official." It came out as a hoarse whisper, a tortured, agonized wail ripped from a tattered soul.

"She cried." Luke got up and threw his plate roughly in the sink with a savage growl. Rory followed and pressed her advantage. "She still cries. All the time. Every night, even. You were so good together. You were happy!"

"No we weren't! We weren't good." He leaned against the sink and his arms shook with profound restraint. "Your grandparents saw that. That's why they tried to break us up. They saw that Lorelai and I weren't good together, and that Christopher was good enough for her and I…wasn't." he gave up and collapsed into his chair.

"She left Max for you." Rory studied him with a calm she did not feel. It hurt her to cause pain to someone she loved and respected. Nevertheless, it needed to be done. He needed to realize how important he really was. "You weren't Max. Or, Max wasn't you. Either way she wanted you. And Max wasn't you."

"Great, another thing I ruined."

"Ruined? You fixed it! You fixed her—us, really." She could not believe what Luke was saying. She could not believe that he hated himself that much. "You fixed our house, took care of us when we were sad or sick, gave me a dad when my own couldn't be bothered, and showed my mother what a decent guy was like. When she was with you, she was happy. You made her happy. Not Max, not Jason, and not Christopher. You. And she's miserable without you."

Luke said nothing. He stared straight ahead at the grandfather clock his dad had built for his mother. It was clear he did not know how to process this revelation: Lorelai was not happy. This went far beyond a fight and a breakup. Lorelai never cried. Each time she had cried the emotions were about someone else, or she was ashamed of herself. She had never cried because _she _was hurting. Now, he had made her do it every night. "What should I do?"

"Do what you always do," Rory smiled fondly at her father. "Fix it."

"How?"

"Do what you always do, talk to her, and then make her talk."

"What do you mean? She _always_ talks. She never stops! When the bomb finally drops, and everything in the world is destroyed, there will be two things left:"

"Cher and cockroaches?"

"Three things, then." Luke continued without pause, and Rory marveled at how a conversation could bounce between them. They were connected. "And her yammering mouth will be one of them. There won't even be a body attached to it, just her head yapping away with sound magically coming out of it." He sighed and grabbed his hat off his head, holding it in a vice-like grip in both hands. "Actually, that's probably not true. Her body's so full of preservatives that she'll last forever, no matter what happens. She's like a Twinkie."

"Oooo Twinkies!" Rory clapped her hands in delight at witnessing another Luke rant. "And, while that's probably very true, she never talks about important stuff. She never talks about her problems. At least, not to me or Sookie." Unfortunately, the time for levity had ended. "She tells you, though." Rory tried to hide the jealousy that burned in her heart. She loved Luke, but it chafed that her mother had someone else to confide in. "She only tells you."

"Rory…" Luke leaned over and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"It's good, though. Really." Rory smiled up at the man she though of as her father. "You get her to open up. She confides in you and no one else." She laughed bitterly at her own possessiveness. "She thinks she needs to be brave for my sake and that she can't break down in front of me or anyone. That's not healthy. Maybe she needed to do that while I was growing up. But I'm grown now and she's still trying to be strong."

"She's the strongest woman I know." Luke sounded almost wistful as he stared out the window towards the town square.

"You make her strong."

"I don't..." Rory silenced his argument as she put her arms around him in a fond embrace.

"Just go and make her strong, Luke." She released him and walked to the door. It was time for her to go and Luke needed to open the diner. "Thanks for everything," a shy smile graced her lips, "Dad."

"Anytime, Kid, anytime." He leaned back in his chair resting his hands behind his capped head as _his girl,_ his _daughter_, walked out of his apartment and into the sunlight beyond his prison. He felt a grin, small but strong, form as he looked about his ancient home and for once entropy did not return.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Gravel crunched beneath rubber tires as Rory pulled into the drive. The Crap Shack glowed invitingly, welcoming her with its warm radiance. It stood as a shining beacon against the dull morning light. Every thing seemed the same from _before_. The vines still trailed across the top of the porch and the flagstone path to the front steps was nestled in muddy overlong grass. She knew if she turned the corner to the back porch, she would find several water bottles waiting to be used and, probably, Lorelai's keys stuck in the back door. There had never been a more convincing lie in her life. Or, a more blatant one. Nothing was right in Whoville, that much was certain. The chuppah that stood to the side of the house varnished against the passed winter's chill and neatly trimmed vines arching over it gave away her mother's deceit. A properly grieving woman would have tried to remove it, to make a Luke Box to store all the memories and emotions. But the chuppah stood beside the house as a reminder of a man's undying love and friendship-now dead and turned to bitterness—to symbolize a woman's enduring love to another man—now passed forgotten, his things finding there own cardboard apartment in the attic.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Lorelai's voice rang clear and beautiful through the crisp March air.

Rory beamed as the scent of her sweet nectar tickled her nose. "Is that coffee in your hands or are you just glad to see me?"

"Well I figured that a night like yours needed coffee." She pointedly looked at her daughter over her steaming cup. "Pretty eventful night, hunh?" Lorelai stuck out a cup towards her daughter.

"You heard about that?" Rory grinned sheepishly as she accepted the offered mug of life-giving bitter liquid.

"Well I assumed something went down when Miss Patty said she saw your car parked over at Luke's." Lorelai took a deep sip of her coffee. "Then, I get another call from you _father_ accusing me of turning you against him."

"That man is not my father."

"Well, babe, he had a very significant role in your creation." She set her cup aside and looked up at her daughter. "So, he's definitely something. You want to talk about it?"

"He wanted me to make you forgive him," she sighed and sat beside her mother, resting her head on the older woman's shoulder. "He's just so self-absorbed. He only thinks about what he wants and when it's convenient for him to get it."

"That is the definition of being 'self absorbed'. It'd be pretty bad if he were selfless and philanthropic."

"Oooh, big word."

"Hey, until I was 16 I was top of my class at a genius school, too."

"But, a joke? You joke? About this? You joke about this?"

"Just trying to calm you down." She rubbed the small of Rory's back comfortingly. "Tell me what brought this on."

"Were you there at the wedding?"

"Yes I was. And, that was a rotten thing they pulled. And, as happy as I am about the solidarity…"

"Ya-Ya!" Rory threw her arms in the air as she yelled.

"That's my line." Lorelai pouted and gently thumped her daughter's shoulder. "Anyway, as happy as I am, I don't want you to lose your father or grandparents." She wrapped her arm around her daughter's shoulders in a sisterly embrace. "I'm done with all of them. You don't' have to be."

"What he and Grandma did to Luke was horrible!"

"Oh I agree. That was classic Emily at her greatest."

"So, why are you defending him?"

"I'm not, I'm just…" Lorelai groaned and leaned into her daughter. "Chris and I were over the minute the strip turned pink. I realized it when he proposed, and I gave up any hope of us three being a family when he went back to Sherry." For some reason, she found Rory's car extremely fascinating. "I loved him at least, I thought it was love. He was… fun, disillusioned like I was, and completely bored with his life. He and I had a blast. He went along with all my crazy schemes and he came up with a few of his own. The backpacking across Europe? His idea."

"Oh," Rory looked down at her feet as anger boiled inside her that he had tainted a precious experience of hers.

"But that's just it. He thought. He dreamed. He never did anything or meant anything. It's hard to respect someone like that. But you, and I, we _do _things. We mean things." It was important for her daughter to understand her twisted history with this man. "He never backpacked across Europe, or graduated from college, or had any adventures. He has accidents that become something more. His whole life is bouncing from one mistake to another, and somehow coming out on top at the end. But, he needs someone to guide him through those accidents and show him what to be or what he wants."

"Chai lattes."

"Chai lattes."

"So you're not mad at Christopher?"

"Oh, I'm furious. But I'm more disappointed in him." Lorelai squeezed her daughter's shoulders again. "He's too lost in the idea of us to know how to move on. That's why I don't want you to hate him. He's too…"

"Pathetic."

"Pathetic to hate. And, I don't want you to hate your grandparents." A strong wind blew and stirred the bare branches to life. "Your grandparents love you very much, and you shouldn't turn your back on them for my sake."

"Hey, solidarity, sister!"

"Ya-Ya!" Lorelai threw her arms in the air and called out to the morning sky. An action she nearly regretted as she tipped her cup of coffee on to the porch, narrowly missing her legs.

"Happy now?" Rory grinned at her mom and entered the house.

"I'm getting there." Her voice was barley above a whisper as she curled her knees under her chin and hugged them close to her chest. She smiled softly to herself as she thought about it. Yes, she would be fine. She had Rory; she never needed anything other than her daughter before and she did not need anything else now. The Dragonfly was a resounding success and Rory was kicking major butt at Yale. Not bad for an unwed teenage runaway mother. She had started out with nothing. Everything had been taken from her by a not so smooth combination of scotch, gin, and vodka and a very smooth smile that emboldened her to invite her boyfriend to her balcony. Yet, she had persevered. She had found a house and a job and got her daughter into the best school in the state. Lorelai was great at getting stuff.

Keeping it, however, was another matter.

Her eyes drifted back chuppah. Yes, keeping things was always a problem for her.

Lorelai whimpered as she stood and surveyed the yard, although her eyes remained riveted to the chuppah. "Why couldn't I keep you?"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Lorelai turned on her heel and bounced into the house. When life handed you a bunch of lemons, just ignore them and eventually they will go away. Lorelai was very good at ignoring things.

"So how you doing?" Unfortunately, her daughter had not inherited her talent.

"How're things with Logan?" Redirection was always the best tactic when dealing with Rory. It worked for Sun Tzu, is should work on her daughter.

"So how you doing?" Art of War, hah! Obviously, ancient Chinese warlords knew nothing about matching wits with a Gilmore Girl. Perhaps, a change of tactics altogether would be advisable. "I'm dong as well as can be expected." Yes! Perfect! A little bit of truth to cover the lie! She would use the 'I did not inhale' ploy! "Work is swamped, which is good because a busy inn is a money-making inn. Sookie's pregnant again, which is making things even crazier than they should be…"

"Oh yeah, how's that going? Did she decide on a name yet?"

Lorelai grinned in triumph as her daughter's eyes lit up with interest. She was a worthy opponent, this Rory Gilmore, better than most, but not good enough to best the Master. "Sookie's great. Little Turnip or Parsley seems perfectly healthy for being a group of cells about the size of a peanut." She looked at her daughter over the rim of her coffee mug, willing her to follow the new topic. She needed Rory to ignore her problems right now. _She_ needed to ignore her problems.

"Turnip? What happened to Colgate?"

"Copyrighted."

"Of course. Continue, please."

"Besides, Jackson grows vegetables, and Sookie cooks them. Food names seemed to be appropriate."

"Oh sure." Rory looked around the house as they talked. "So, how are you?"

Mother stared at daughter as the clock counted the minutes going by. Neither spoke nor looked away. This was a battle of wills between two friends bound by blood and hardship. "I'm fine." It was not complete lie.

"You haven't wallowed."

"What do you think I did that first month I spent in bed?" She set her cup on the table and studied her hands. "Look, I wallowed. I cried. I moped. And, now, I've moved on. I'm fine, now. Rory. Really." Lorelai forced a syrupy smile. "See? All smiles here."

"You sure?"

"Rose colored glasses, babe."

"It's just he misses you so much, Mom, and I know you do too."

"Yeah, I miss him, Rory. But, it's done and over with."

"It doesn't have to be. You can go make up with him, like you guys always do after a fight."

"This isn't just some fight, we broke up. You don't make up after that."

"You and Max did. Dean and I did."

"Yeah, and look how well those both turned out."

"Hey!"

"God, Rory, enough!" Lorelai felt the salty sting burn at her eyes. Try as she did, she could not hold them back.

"You're both miserable! His food sucks. It actually sucks. The only one who can eat it is Kirk. That's how sad he is. And you…"

The treacherous salt leaked from her eyes freely. She cursed every one of them, and her daughter, for making her feel again. "Stop!"

"You don't even have a Luke Box. Everything he's touched or made or used is still here."

"This whole house is a Luke Box, Rory! He's fixed or touched, or given me everything that's here." She laid her head on the table in defeat and let the salt flow. "I can't box up the chuppah; I can't box up the shelves in your room, or the socket by the tub, or the garbage disposal. Even the Dragonfly reminds me of him." Rory eased the grieving woman form the table and onto the couch. She grabbed the phone on her way back to the kitchen to get there coffee cups. "Hey, Pete?" she whispered into the phone. "Can I get two extra larges with everything?" And, could you get Joe to pickup four tubs of ice cream?" She looked back into the living room and sighed. "Thanks." Her mother had curled into a tiny ball in one corner of the couch.

"Rory, I'm not through wallowing yet."

"I know, Mom." She walked over to her mother and wrapped a blanket around her after setting the cups on the table. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Sookie kicked me out yesterday."

"What?"

"They ganged up on me. It was like that time when the Japanese Stock Exchange rioted, only with less pleasant after effects."

"The Nikkei."

"What?"

"The Japanese Stock Exchange is called the Nikkei."

"Oh, well, anyway, it was bad. Michel even threatened to tell Taylor that I wanted to volunteer to help organize the four town functions!"

"That's just cruel!"

"I know! Taylor would either believe him and talk my head off about every inane detail of each function or, worse, he wouldn't believe me, and he's spend an equal amount of time telling me how important the town functions are and how I shouldn't mock them."

"Either way, a fate worse than death."

"So I came here." She looked around the room, her own private Luke Box, and sighed. "They took away the thing that kept me sane."

"Well, pizza and ice cream are on there way, ands we have plenty of junk food to eat here. So, let's get down to serious wallowing." Yes, wallowing was good. For both of them.

"Can we watch _An Affair to Remember?_"

"Sure."

"Ooh! And _Gone With the Wind_!"

"A wallowing must."

"And _Breakfast at Tiffany's_, and _Ghost_, and _Kate and Leopold_."

"_Kate and Leopold_?" Rory made a face. What was her mother thinking?

"Mockability, my friend. Plus, Hugh's hot."

"True, that. Ok, I allow the _Kate and Leopold_, but I'm including _Titanic_."

"Ugh!" Lorelai threw her hand back dramatically and bent over the back of the couch. "I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go! Plop!"

"Fine, _an Officer and a Gentleman._"

"Ooh! Richard! Goody!" Lorelai clapped her hands in joy. "And we'll end with _Casablanca_!" She was fairly bouncing her seat now.

"What would a night of wallowing be without it?" They curled up together on the couch and listened to the opening theme of _Gone with the Wind._ "Things are going to be fine, Mom."

"I know, babe. I know."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Lorelai dabbed her eyes and looked at her daughter. "Why do I have the feeling we were both wallowing there? Something happen with Logan?"

"No."

"You dodged that bullet pretty quick back there. You wanna talk about it?"

"Logan and I are great, Mom. You're talking crazy-talk there, mom. This day is all about you."

"Fighting for movies on a wallowing day generally implies a vested reason to wallow."

"You needed to, that's reason enough to be vested."

"It's not Christopher, because you made it very clear that you don't want anything to do with him." She turned off the television just as Kate was jumping off the Washington Bridge. "Oh no. No no no no no no. Not Luke. Please don't think that."

"I don't"

"Just because Luke and I aren't 'Luke and I' doesn't mean you have to hate him or avoid him or anything."

"I don't."

"I don't want you to feel that you can't talk to him or eat at the diner. He still cares about you."

"I know that. I spent the night there, remember."

"Yeah. What did you talk about?"

"You." Rory ducked her head, feeling ashamed at the admission. "He still loves you."

"Then why did he end it?" Lorelai's vision blurred as bitter water burned at their rims once more.

"He was hurting, mom. He'd been lied to." Lorelai flinched. "And his girlfriend's parents had just told him that he was worthless. He was just lashed out at the nearest person."

Rory nervously poked the pizza box with her foot. This was not an easy conversation. Her mother took the momentary lull to glance at the clock.

"Rory! Look at the time! It's almost seven!"

"So?"

"So? You have class tomorrow!"

"Oh class, right." Class, the one thing Rory did not want to think about. "I can skip it."

"What? Go! Now!"

"You are more important."

"Rory, I'm thirty-eight years old. I can take care of myself. I do my own laundry and everything."

"What about meals?"

Lorelai pouted and pulled the throw pillow close to her chin. "Sookie."

"There's my good provider." Rory grinned and ruffled her mother's hair.

"Hey! I can't cook and the last person to use that stove was Max!"

"So I prove my point: you are incapable of tending to your needs. Thus I am needed here more."

"Clever." Lorelai pouted unhappy at losing the banter so quickly. Wallowing for two months had really put her off her game. Unless… Yes! Her eyes lit up with renewed vigor. "I am still able to sustain and nourish myself."

"But…"

"Yeah, I'm not making my food but I _am_ getting it."

"Parasite."

"Just call me 'Lorelai the Lice'."

"Louse."

"What?"

"Lice is plural, louse is singular."

"You are too smart for your own good. And mine." Lorelai rolled her eyes and batted her daughter with the pillow.

"And on that note, I'm going to head back to Yale." Rory laughed as she dug her keys out of her purse. "You sure you don't need anything?"

"Rory, I'm fine, really. I'm gonna throw in a Willie Wonka when you leave and then go to bed."

"Ok, then." Rory leaned down and kissed her mother's forehead. "I'll call you tonight when I go to bed."

"Ok, babe."

Rory shut the door and walked to her car. As she backed out of the driveway and drove down the road, she caught a glimpse of Luke's headlights as he pulled up to the house. His truck stopped where her car was. "Go get her Luke," she whispered to herself and grinned. Yes, things were going to be just fine.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Luke stepped out of the truck and looked morosely at the house. Somewhere inside--probably the living room--was Lorelai. _His_ Lorelai. Stalker implications aside, she really was _his_. She was his in the way that he was hers. They were synonymous in his mind: Luke and Lorelai. There was no separation in his mind about where he ended and she began. That still sounded obsessive, he supposed, but it was still true. She was the other part of him and, in that way, she was his. He had always been there for her, helping her, fixing her house. Every act had been a silent declaration of his love. Every surly grumble and bark a hidden kiss. And the banter, the flirtatious, friendly banter was the ruse that made the disguise possible.

He had survived that way for years, staring at her from afar, and became pretty good at it. He knew her walk, her perfume, and her wardrobe. That had been enough for him. To know her better than she knew herself and just be there for her. A year ago, though, he had realized that she was the most important person in the world to him—followed closely by Rory and Jess (although he would never admit that to the punk)—and he had taken the plunge and stopped watching her and went to _be _with her. And it was good. Really good. And, he ruined it.

He stood in front of Lorelai's house, confused about how he had got there. Had it really been only a few hours ago that Rory had told him to go talk to Lorelai? Like a fool, though, he had waited an opened the diner. The whole day, he was surly and forgetful. He wrote the same order five times and took a plate of hamburgers to six separate tables before he realizes that the patty was still frozen. Lane finally had to confine him to the apartment so that she could salvage the rest of her tips (and his customers). That just meant that he got to brood alone in the solitude of his apartment. Around two in the afternoon, Lane had brought him a turkey sandwich and a cup of chicken noodle soup.

He had to smile at that. She really was a good kid. Why she stuck by him after the Break Up was beyond him. He had assumed that she would have quit as a sign of unity with her surrogate mother and best friend. Yet, the following morning she had appeared at the diner to work her usual shift. She just came into the diner, offered him a small smile and a shrug, and started filling coffee cups. Later, after a particularly rough day—he vaguely remembered throwing a few customers out to the curb—she had taken over orders entirely and relegated him to sweeping and refilling cups. At the end of the day, he had asked her why she stayed with the diner.

She just looked up from counting out her tips and shrugged. "Mama says you should never cast dirt into the well that gives you water."

Luke had just nodded at her reply and given her her paycheck. Her check two weeks later would reflect nearly a dollar raise. Luke 'did not put dirt in his wells either'. He understood loyalty. _He_ was loyal.

However, when Lane had given him lunch earlier that afternoon, after Rory had left, it had seemed like she was doing it for another reason. She was not just being loyal and taking care of her employer. Again, Luke asked her the same question he had given her nearly two months before.

"Why are you still here?" He had looked over at her from his hunched position in his armchair.

Lane shrugged and looked down at the tray in her hands. "Because you're there for everyone else." She shook her head dismissively and set the tray down on the kitchen table. "I'm gonna go back down, now." She turned on her heel and scampered back down the stairs, leaving him once more alone with his thoughts.

These thoughts brought him to Lorelai's house where he stood on the gravel driveway studying the place with an appraising eye for any signs that she had moved on. The house still needed the new coat of paint he had planned to give it this spring. A few shingles had come loose during the recent snowstorm. He would replace them Saturday. A window rattled softly in the wind; the frame needed sanding. It had probably warped when the fool woman left it open to sniff the snow. He walked up the steps and grimaced as he heard the railings creak—another thing he needed to fix. It was easier to think of things to fix than to focus on his relationship. Emotions had always scared him, ever since his mother grew ill. Therefore, he had learned to channel his emotions into a project, and then fix it or build it; if he still could not deal, then he found another project. His life had been filled with projects since he was seven. His mother got sick; he learned to cook. His mother died; he made a desk. His father died; he built a diner. The woman he loved was engaged to another man; he built her a chuppah. Each time, there was an emotion attached to it that he could not deal with. Over the years, he had become very adept at not dealing. Unfortunately, he needed to deal now.

Luke took a steadying breath, "Easy Danes," and knocked loudly on the door. He counted the seconds for the door to open, fighting the urge to bolt down the road back to his diner and drown his sorrows in a case of beer. "This is crazy. I should go." She would never take him back anyway. He had screwed things up too badly.

He never had the chance to act on his decision as the door opened to reveal a disheveled Lorelai. "Kid, I'm gonna be fine!" She gasped as she saw a dejected Luke standing on her porch. "Luke?" her voice was small, tentative. She did not want to believe he was standing on her doorstep, nor did she want it to be a dream.

"Hey." God, she was beautiful. Was she always this beautiful?

"Hey." He looked up at her with his soulful plaintive eyes. Then, she was in his arms. Their lips met at first tentatively, soft pecking questioning feathers tracing each other's features. The kisses grew more furtive, more demanding, as her hands gripped his broad shoulders and he buried his deep in her hair.

She pulled him into the house. He allowed her to lead him. She gasped for air. He pressed her tighter to his chest. Her kisses grew insistent. He called for reason. Neither of them listened.

They ignored the implications of what the kiss could mean. Two halves of a single soul had reunited for one special scared moment was all that mattered. Tonight, for the first time in two months, they were happy. That was all that mattered.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone who's read or reviewed this story. I'll try my best to give you a good story. Special shout out to Kal: you rock! you're the greatest beta on Earth applause

Chapter Nine

Lorelai's pillow was moving. It rose and sank with the rhythmic motions of a man sleeping. She smiled as an arm wrapped around her waist and pressed her closer to his chest. _Luke_. Her Luke. She liked the sound of that. Her Luke. He grounded her, kept her from flying apart. He was her tether. The months without him were the hardest she had ever endured. Not even those first months away from her parents when she worked herself to the bone just to keep Rory in diapers were as difficult. She had always been self-reliant and she had known that she would pull through for her daughter. However, ever since the first awkward foundations of their friendship, Lorelai had relied on Luke. She had not meant to—after all, she _did_ fancy herself Wonder Woman—but the truth was he had become her strength. He fixed her problems as stoically and willingly as he gave her coffee. As long as he was near, she could do anything and overcome any hardship. As long as they were together. She had thought that that was what the complete package was: a man and a woman working together, loving each other, and relying on each other. She had achieved it, her perfect life. It scared her more than anything she had ever faced.

Now that they were back together, she would do anything to keep from getting scared again. That is, if they _were_ back together. No. She would not think like that. They were getting back together; sleeping with Luke confirmed it. Sure, they needed to talk. They would talk in the morning when they were both awake and had time to process. For the moment, Lorelai just wanted to be happy in Luke's arms.

She breathed in Luke's particular scent: pine needles, peppermint tea, and something old and firm—like rock but different. He smelled an old cabin in the woods. It was a uniquely Luke scent, and she wanted to fill herself with it. With him.

"Heh. _Dirty," _she giggled under her breath. Yes, she was happy. And, happiness must be shared.

Lorelai carefully slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing the phone her way. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and curled up on the couch as she waited for her daughter to answer.

"Evil." Rory groaned into the receiver.

"Aw, was Beauty sleeping?" Lorelai giggled into the phone.

"No, I was doing jumping jacks and watching the 700 Club."

"Oh good, then you won't mind talking to me."

Rory sighed. "What do you want?"

"There's a man in my bed."

"Anyone I know, or are you trying to go for the whole female version of Hugh Grant?"

"It's a Luke-shaped man."

"Really!" Rory gasped and winced as her own man-shaped lump stirred beside her. She tiptoed out to the common room she shared with Paris. "Really?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"Paris."

"Is sleeping in your bed?"

"Has ears like a bat." Rory hated lying to her mother, but an argument inspired by the true occupant of her bed was not what she wanted to do at two forty-three in the morning.

"He came over just as you left." Lorelai nestled deeper into the couch. "And we kissed and made up. A lot."

"Hey! Keep it PG here."

"Will do, babe. So, anyway, he came over, and we kissed, and now he's in my bed."

"Did you guys talk about what happened?"

"We only said about two words the whole evening."

"That must have been some kiss."

"And how."

"Ew. So, what does this mean?"

Lorelai smiled at the butterflies that fluttered about her stomach. "I think it means we're together again."

"But you guys are still going to talk."

"Right. Tomorrow. After breakfast."

"Yeah, because that's when normal people wake up."

"Sorry, night kiddo. Say goodnight to Logan for me."

"Night mom." Rory laughed into her phone. Trust her mom to know when there was a boy in her bed. She hung up the phone, crawled back into bed, and was immediately embraced by her boyfriend's waiting arms.

"Everything alright?" Concern filled his groggy voice.

"It is now." Rory curled into his arms, and tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder.

Logan's eyes shot wide open. "There was something wrong?"

Rory had to smile at that. Logan could be so cute. "My mom. She took the break-up hard."

"Oh yeah. But she's better now?"

"Yup. She and Luke are back together."

"Luke? The diner guy?"

"Yeah, Luke the guy who fed my mom and I for nearly eight years." Rory pulled the blankets over their bodies. She smiled as she drifted off to sleep. Her family was back and everything was going to be fine.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Lorelai harbored similar sentiments as her daughter as she turned off her phone and set in its cradle. Strong arms entwined around her waist and she leaned back into the firm chest behind her. "How long were you listening?"

She could hear his grin as he whispered into her ear, "Apparently, there's a man in your bed."

"Oh yeah. Him." Lorelai's back arched as his hot breath tickled the skin of her neck. It sent electricity coursing down her spine. She missed the connection he brought her. The way he made her feel alive and needed with just a touch or a glance.

"Should I be concerned?" His lips grazed the edge of her ear as his hands traced circles on her stomach.

"Oh yeah. He's a bad man." Lorelai smiled and played with the small hairs at the base of his neck. "He does naughty things." The foreplay was great, too.

"Hmm…" Luke bent down, pressing his lips to her neck. "Maybe I should go and teach him a lesson about sleeping in my girl's bed."

"Your girl?" Lorelai's heart thrilled. His girl. This was permanent. He wanted her back!

"I hated being away from you."

"Me too. Let's not do it again." She dragged her nails down his arm and covered his hands with her own.

"I agree." His hands stopped moving and he took a steadying breath.

"Luke, is this 'the talk'?"

"I don't know. Is it."

"We need to have it."

He sighed. "I know. I'll go make some coffee."

She instantly regretted the decision as the sudden withdrawal of his touch brought goose bumps to her flesh. She had been too long without his presence, and keenly felt any absence no matter how brief. Lorelai needed to touch him and be touched by him, if only because it would reaffirm her place in his heart. She needed to be sure that the dream had finally become reality. She followed his heat to the kitchen, and blinked in momentary blindness as the ceiling light seared her eyes. "Ow! Bright!"

"Oh, heh, um, here do you have any candles?" She pointed towards the draw underneath the stove. He nodded and dug one out after turning on the coffee pot. In one fluid motion, he lit the candle on the burner flame and set a kettle on to boil. "I'm not going to ask why they're in there."

"So we can light them easily." She took the candle from him and set it in a holder on the table.

"Of course." He turned towards her, his breath hitching in his throat as the candlelight cast her body in soft glows and shadows. His flannel hung from her shoulders down to her silken thighs, its partially opened front revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. He blushed and stepped back into the shadows. "Coffee will be ready in a minute." He turned back to the stove. "Do you have any tea?"

It was Lorelai's turn to blush as his broad back and shoulders glistened in the light. Each dip and valley between the muscles lined in shadows seemed to make him a man carved from living marble. She found her eyes drifting down to the small of his back, resting just above his boxers then back up to his thick arms and shoulders. This was going to be hard. "Third shelf, still in your can. Your mug should be there, too."

"You didn't pack it up?" Lorelai could hear the smile in his voice. He poured their drinks and turned back to her. She was already sitting and fiercely watching her hands atop the table.

"I couldn't. It hurt too much." She braced herself as she gazed across the table into a pair of blue eyes that shimmered in the candlelight. Tears threatened to burst from her as she forced herself to look back upon their time apart much as she knew Luke was willing himself to do the same. It would be torture for them both.

So much needed to be said and explained.

They nodded slightly to each other and took final steadying breaths. It was time.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Lorelai's eyes met Luke's across the table. She was terrified of this moment. It bore the weight of threats of possibilities and decisions. Things would be said, things they could not take back and could not erase with a danish and a cup of coffee.

She wondered if he felt the same.

"So, you said it hurt too much to put away my tea?"

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the hard planes and angles the shadows chiseled from his flesh. God, but he was beautiful.

"Why?"

"It was too hard. It would be real if I put them in a box." She laughed dismissively. It sounded brittle and weak to her ears, giving away the illusion she tried so hard to create. "You know me: ignore the problem until it goes away."

"You, you wanted me to go away?" His was barely above a whisper and he seemed to press himself into the chair.

Lorelai sighed again and looked at the clock. Three in the morning, perfect. This was just the type of conversation one would want in the middle of the night. "No. Yes. It's complicated. Can we start off with a simpler question?"

"Why did you lie to me about Christopher?" His voice was flat. He could have asked her what the current gas prices were. He probably would have sounded more interested in the gas prices.

"I think I want the going away question back."

"Well?"

"I don't know." She sighed and begged her coffee cup for the answer. "He's Christopher, y'know?"

"Well that explains everything."

"He and I have the great big history: Rory, the drama that is our parents, the whole star-crossed lovers thing." He winced and she instantly regretted the comment. "And, no matter how big of a rat he can be, no matter how many times he lets me or Rory down, he comes and he smiles, and it's…Christopher. I forget all the bad times, and it's like we're both sixteen and riding in his Porsche. I didn't want you to think I was seeing Christopher in anything but a friends and fellow caretaker of spawn kind of way."

"You thought I would be worried?" Lorelai nodded. "About you being chummy with the father of your child and the man you've gotten back together with more times than a Kennedy's been on the bandwagon?"

"And with good reason, apparently." She hated doing this, putting all the blame on Luke. It was her defense mechanism, a tactic learned from a lifetime of ridicule and scrutiny: redirect all attacks to the attacker. A tactic espoused by the great Sun Tsu himself.

"I was afraid you'd get all jealous and bijiggety. Glad to see I was wrong."

"I wouldn't have been jealous."

"What?" She stared at him, the whole room out of focus. This whole scene seemed unreal. Of course, he would be jealous. Men were possessive and they viewed woman as part of their possession—like a hat that they slept with. Any warm-blooded male would be desperate to keep his woman away from any potential mates, especially a potential mate that was, at one time, a real mate.

"I've seen the way he treated you. But, you kept going back to him." His eyes bore into her own as though imploring her to understand. "Even just as friends, he screwed things up for you."

"So this wasn't about Christopher being my ex? It's about how he manages to come back into my life exactly at the wrong time?"

Luke nodded. "He's like some cosmic screw-up that won't rest until he's finally made you as screwed up as he is." He sighed and took a deep breath. "And you _always_ take him back." Luke ran his hands through his hair in a true ranting mode. Despite the topic, Lorelai reveled in the vision. Luke angered or emotional was always a sight. He was a man of great passions—passion he usually kept broiling well below the surface. When he allowed it to crest, his eyes grew darker, his voice huskier, his body fuller. Lorelai hungered for him even more. "Every time you see him, he hurts you and Rory. Even when the two of you are just friends. You're never _just_ friends, there's always something else there—your history or whatever—but it draws you back to him. And, he screws you up."

"I swear to you, Luke, I'm over him. I thought he was over me."

"Then why did you hide it from me?"

Lorelai peered into her cup, searching its bitter contents for answers she did not have. There was no reason for her deception; no sane logical explanation could provide insight into her behavior when Christopher was involved. She needed to tell him the truth. He deserved at least that much. Could she do it? Could she bare that much of herself and not break down from what she would uncover? She gulped and took the plunge.

"As easy as it would be for me to blame my insane evil twin for hiding Christopher, the only thing I can say is that I was scared." He winced again and she hurriedly continued. "We were good. So good. Better than any relationship I've ever been in. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a partner. I had someone I could share everything with. I didn't want to lose that. And, because I knew you wouldn't like the idea of me hanging out with him—which I completely understand—I kept it a secret."

"So you liked to me to protect us?"

"As crazy as it sounds, yes." She gazed unflinchingly towards him.

He eyes seemed too focused on the burning candle before her as he stirred his tea with a finger. "I know I shouldn't have worried." His eyes turned to hers. "But I would have." 

"Luke I don't know how many times I can say it."

"I just get worried that one day you'll realize that I'm not good enough for you."

Lorelai was dumbfounded. Luke not good enough for her? Unbelievable! "And you think I think Christopher is?

Luke gulped and nodded.

"I realized that Christopher would never work at Sookie's wedding. It hurt; it physically hurt admitting it. I didn't want to give up on that dream, I guess. It would have been nice: the biological father of my daughter actually living with me." Luke flinched and seemed to crumple in his chair, each word from Lorelai chiseled away at his stony exterior. "I mean it'd make my parents happy, it'd make _his _parents happy so Rory would finally have tow sets of grandparents. It'd probably have made Rory's life at Chilton a lot easier. But it wouldn't have made Rory happy. It wouldn't have made me happy." She smiled as a faint glimmer of hope sparkled to life in his eyes. "You, Mr. Backwards-baseball-cap-man, make us happy."

The faintest hint of a grin peaked at the corners of his mouth, almost as though he were too afraid to believe her. "I make you guys happy?"

"Well you made me _very _happy about four times in the passed," she caught a glance at the clock above the microwave, "six hours." She laughed at the sudden flush that colored his cheeks.

"Lorelai!" His growl was a mixture of frustration and embarrassment with a strong undercurrent of something else. It was more tangible than desire and moiré real than lust. It excited her.

Lorelai shook her head and steeled herself against her yearning libido. Hormones could wait. This was important. "I've compared every guy I've ever dated to you. I tried to find people who were like you: Max was safe and reliable; Alex was outdoorsy and handy; Jason could keep up with my quips. But none of them _were_ you. And, I was too busy trying to find people like you, that I never thought to ask you." She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I guess I was too afraid of what could happen. I knew I'd screw it up if you said yes, and our friendship would be ruined if you said no." She looked at Luke through tear-moistened eyes. "Luke, I don't deserve you. I was afraid you'd see that. So, I never risked asking you. When you did ask me, I hid everything that would make you see that. Like me visiting Christopher." She spread her hands above the table as though asking the fates for an answer to her problem. "Behold my success." Lorelai shook her head and looked at the cold cup of coffee in her hands. "I don't deserve you."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"I don't deserve you." The words shot through the air like a chime: soft, musical (Lorelai's voice could be nothing but), and deafening in their cacophony. The world hung still as though in a great balance, stunned by a profundity too great to realize in the mere accounting of seconds or exchange of words. Any motion: a faucet dripping, the breeze stirring the branches of a tree bereft of leaves, a clock ticking in exorable measure the world's descent into darkness, would upset the balance and tip the scale of words and deeds. The world waited in frozen anticipation. Cars stood still, birds were thumbtacked to clouds, the moon and stars shuttered themselves against the power that loomed over this moment. All of existence paused to await the outcome.

Only the lone taper standing between the two lovers sitting in the darkened kitchen dared defy the natural hush with is willful brilliance. It threw its light with unruly glee, oblivious to the truth its light revealed. The light fell on Lorelai, igniting soft twinkling diamonds on her cheeks. The light fell on Luke. It burned him, seared his flesh and eyes, and defended him with its clarion silence. _I don't deserve you._ Words that echoed his own tortured his ears. Had he made her think this? Had he somehow caused her to think so little of herself that he thought that _he_, the guy who did not matter, was too good for her? He must have. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He hurt her. Somewhere between his sister's wedding and that fateful conversation at Doosey's Market, he had managed to hurt her so grievously that she could not recover. He had broken her.

The scale trembled.

The book was wrong. No one who could do that to Lorelai deserved love. Guys like him did not deserve love. Guys like him retreated into their caves and growled at people. They did not love, could not love. They only hurt people. Jess was right: he only made things worse. He had made her stop dancing. Luke shook his head and cursed himself a thousand times over. He was beneath her, and here she was telling him that she did not deserve him. Like, he was some great prize, something more precious than gold or silver. Lorelai was the treasure, the crystal idol atop the pedestal to be worshipped by base creatures such as him.

The scale shook harder.

Luke should not be there, sitting at her table in nothing but his boxers. He should be gone, back in his prison, watching her from behind his counter, rather than watching the way his shirt moved with each breath she took. People like him did not get to be with people like her. Hell, there were no people _like _her, just Lorelai. She was like the stars in the sky: mysterious, shimmering, always in motion. He remembered, once, hearing that the light from the stars takes millions of years to get to Earth. By the time we see the light, the stars are already gone. We see them as they were, never as they are. Lorelai was much the same way to him. He could never keep up with her; never move as fast or smoothly. Every glimpse he had was a snapshot, a picture taken from the telescope of his diner. Even then, though, he did not truly see her, just an after image of her presence; like the light of a star.

He loved her, and he had ruined her, taken away her spirit. He had made her stop dancing. He did not deserve her, did not deserve to be in the same room as her. Unworthy as he was, he still loved her. He meant to tell her these things. He had meant to tell her he would leave and that she would be fine because he would never hurt her again. What came out however, was a strangled "I love you."

The scale shattered. The world began again. Birds flapped; the moon and stars shone down on the pair; life continued. The candle still burned.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"I love you."

Anger flooded Lorelai's eyes. I love you. She had just poured her entire soul to him, revealed to him a secret that no one—not even Rory—shared, and all he could say was that he loved her?

All he could say was that he loved her.

Max would have calmly and rationally explain all of her endearing qualities, citing them as proof that she was a wonderful human being, and that wonderful craziness was what had fascinated him when they first met. Chris, on the other hand, would have laughed and said she was perfect. Any imperfections were simply perfections that were unrealized by the general populace. Both of them, in their own ways, would have labeled this admission as one of her crazy moods. They never would have said they loved her. Luke did.

A warm glow filled her body. Luke said he loved her.

"So that's it?" Damn her mouth! She wanted to proclaim her love from the rooftops and run singing down the streets like Judy Garland or a Disney movie. Instead, she was making things worse by yelling at him. "I say that I'm the scum of the Earth and you say that you love me? Nothings resolved?"

"Well, I do love you." Luke seemed unfazed by her tirade. "And, we hit on what went wrong."

"You loving me broke us up?"

"No."

"Our poor self images?" He nodded. "Well, barring therapy, which you won't do and I can't do, I don't see a resolution in coming."

"There doesn't need to be a solution. Whatever I think about you doesn't matter." He made an odd shaking gesture at the candle. "I mean, it doesn't matter how amazing I think you are, or brave, or gorgeous. It doesn't matter if I think you really are Wonder Woman. Because, if you don't think that, then there's nothing I can do to convince you you're wrong. But, what I can do is tell you how much I love you and stay by you and hope one day you realize how wonderful you really are." He looked down at the table as a fierce blush colored his cheeks.

"You think I'm wonderful?"

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You and Rory both."

"God you talk good."

"The only question is do you love me?"

"Yes." Her voice came out as a whisper.

"Then what are we doing here?"

"I have no clue. We should fix that." She slyly slid from her chair and walked over to him. Her hands traced intricate patterns against his skin. Luke growled roughly as she stoked fires long gone to coals within him. He pulled her to hiss lap, lust and need emboldening him. "There's that naughty man in my bed." She nibbled the top of his earlobe.

He stood from the table, sending the chair crashing to the floor, and lifted her in his arms. "Let's go teach that him a lesson." His voice was deep and low, almost predatory. It sent shivers up her spine.

Neither of them slept that night.

The sun rose early the following morning, and Lorelai, despite a long night of talking and making up, was not tired. Just like in a movie, where the two estranged lovers meet on the pier as the sun sets, and the ocean sprays behind them as they come together for a passionate kiss, they had found their ways to each other. It was better than a movie. There was no music in the background, no Berlin or Six Pence None the Richer, no docks, and no ocean spray. There was a set of stairs in front of a beaten up old house, and instead of a sunset, they had the cold glow of the moon. It was real. That made all the difference.

"Hey."

His voice was rough from lack of sleep and resembled the low rumble of a pickup after a long day at the field. It was a strong voice; a voice that promised a lifetime of safety and love. She could listen to that voice forever.

"Hey," the voice said again. This time, large, work-worn hands traced circles against the skin of her back. She arched, cat-like, and purred as electric tingles coursed through her body. "Hey."

She purred again, "Hey."

"So, I was thinking that since I have the day off…"

"Day off?"

"Caesar and Lane are covering."

"Oh, that's nice."

"I just have to remember to forget Lane sneaks food to Zach and Brian." He paused, and kissed the top of her head. "I have to make sure you tell her what happened last night and today."

"There's going to be more today?" Lorelai demurred.

"Well, I was thinking breakfast." He grinned down at her as his hands gripped her hips tightly and held her above his waist.

She draped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair as she kissed him passionately. "Can we do a little more of what we did last night?"

"I'm fairly certain we can." He nuzzled her neck as his hands did the most amazing things to her hips and back.

"And then?"

He laughed. "You want more?"

"Oh yeah."

"And then I'm going to fix your porch."

"What?"

"And then I'm going to tighten your shutters." He kissed her neck. "And replace some shingles." He kissed her shoulder. "Your shower probably needs some work too."

"Is this some kind of dirty foreplay code?"

"Isn't all foreplay code inherently dirty?"

"Yeah, but this is _especially_ dirty."

"Ah. Well, I noticed the porch and shutters yesterday. The shower's just a guess."

"Good guess. Pressure's been crappy for a week." She leaned down to kiss him again, but the rudely ringing phone interrupted her. "I'll just let the machine get that."

"Do that." His lips sought hers and his hands slipped up her sides. The ringing stopped as the machine clicked on.

"…Lorelai? It's Sookie. Um, not to freak you out or anything but, _where the Hell are you_?" Sookie's shrill voice pierced the morning calm. "The Lourghton's wedding is in four hours, and they're going to be in herein in forty minutes and you were supposed to be here over an hour ago! Okay. It's okay. I'm fine. Everything's fine. It's all fine. I'm gonna call your cell."

Lorelai's head jerked away from Luke as he rolled out of bed, her knee connecting with something very soft in the process. "Oh no! Oh no! No! No! No!"

Luke winced and gently cupped his wounded tenders as he stood from the bed. "You can still make it."

Lorelai winced at Luke's obvious pain. "Sorry, hon."

"Don't worry about it." He winced again. "You just made sure that Rory is an only child." He gently pushed her towards the door. "Now, go!"

Lorelai rushed into the shower, a grin plastered on her face despite her harried state. Yes, everything was going to be fine.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Despite Sookie's earlier melodramatic phone call, there was a quiet calm about the Dragonfly Inn. It was the sort of lazy quiet spring morning where the breeze blows softly in the trees and stirs the early spring flowers—crocuses, hyacinths, and forsythia mostly—to gently perfume the air with their fragrances. It was a day of peace and tranquility. A peace that was shattered as Lorelai burst into the kitchen of the Dragonfly. Egg whites, spatula, spoon, and bowl flew through the air as the inn's boisterous chef wheeled around to face her longtime friend and employer. "Ack! Lorelai! There you are!"

Lorelai flushed in embarrassment. "Sorry, I… um… slept in." Perhaps Sookie would let the lie pass for now. A room full of sous-chefs, waiters, and prep cooks was _not _her image of the ideal place to talk about her reconciliation. Granted, this would not normally bother her; she had spent plenty an hour sitting and gabbing with her best friend over a cup of coffee amidst the hustle and bustle of a working inn's kitchen. However, it seemed crass to her to talk about her night with Luke where anyone could hear, as though she were cheapening something precious or magical. She supposed she was, really. What they had was something special, rare. She had never had a relationship—her heart flipped at that thought, a _relationship_—like she had with Luke. She felt protected and safe when she was with him. True, she felt that with most guys she dated, but then it was a safety born of distance, of aloofness. She had always held herself apart from them, and thus they could not hurt her, because they could not _reach _her emotionally. She had never been attracted to violent or dangerous men, so physical safety had never been much of a concern either. Being with Luke, however, was different. Lorelai knew that he would keep her safe from anything: her family, her fears, herself. She had never been one for the whole romantic girly-girl fairies and unicorns happy ending, but she had to admit it. Luke was her knight in shining armor. Lorelai did not want to ruin that, to tarnish that armor, by bearing the details of their relationship in such a public place.

Sookie seemed to agree as she stopped counting her beats to the whites and set the bowl on the table. "It's okay. The food's going okay, and we did most of the decorating last night. The stage for the quartet is all creaky and someone's misplaced the podium for the reverend and the Lourghtons decided to change the cake flavor—again."

"What?" Lorelai paid scant attention to her friend's complaints. Visions of her boyfriend working around her house—possibly with his shirt off when he did the heavier work on the porch—danced through her head. Shirtless Luke, his chest and back slick with sweat from work, his strong muscles pumping in the sun, she liked that image. She liked it a lot. Lorelai shook her head and focused on the conversation once more. "On the day of the wedding! Are they crazy?"

"Apparently." Sookie turned to her friend and grinned. "So, what happened last night?"

"What?" Her friend could be far too observant for her peace of mind.

"You're all glowy."

"I am not."

"You're all smily, and happy, and you…" Sookie gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh my God! You had _sex_!" She clapped and pulled Lorelai to the stool next to the coffee maker. "Okay, spill."

Lorelai shushed her friend and glowered at her. "Keep your voice down! I don't want it getting around yet."

"What getting around?"

She smiled and felt a warm glow filling her cheeks. "Luke."

"Luke!" Sookie clapped her hands again as she bounced in her stool, her swollen belly rising and falling with every motion. "I knew you two would get back together! I just knew it!"

"Yeah." Lorelai's eyes grew wistful. "Yeah, we did."

"So, how'd it happen?"

"Well Rory had just left to go back to Yale."

"Wait, Rory was here?" Trust Sookie to be easily distracted. On the other, hand, maybe that was a good thing; Lorelai still did not want to ruin the dream of last night by talking about it, like not telling your wish after you blow out the candles. You know that telling the wish will not ruin it, but you still believe if you keep it secret, the wish will come true.

Lorelai nodded. "There was a thing in Boston with Christopher, and she was in desperate need of mommy-daughter time." On second thought, maybe Rory's problems were not the best way to distract Sookie. "Anyway, she leaves and I hear a knock at the door. Naturally, I think it's her."

"But it wasn't!" Sookie's stomach hung far out above the floor as she leaned over the stool in apparent excitement.

"It wasn't." Lorelai smiled kindly, and her eyes dreamily wandered across the floral pattern on the walls. She was _not_ mooning over him. Lorelai Gilmore did _not_ moon! She was just reminiscing about a wonderful night spent with the man she loved. "It was him."

Sookie gave a little shriek of joy and bounced again in her stool. Unfortunately, she was a little too exuberant this time, as she completely missed the stool on her way down and collapsed to the floor as her body succumbed to the inevitable pull of gravity. The coffee cups and pastry platter beside her suffered a similar fate and showered the pregnant cook in lemon custard filling and porcelain shards. Lorelai immediately rushed to her friend's aide, but was waved off. "I'm fine. No. Really. Everything's fine." She patted her stomach affectionately. "Isn't that right, my little Zucchini?"

"Zucchini?" Sookie nodded. "What happened to Parsley or Turnip?"

"Zucchini sounds more unisex." Lorelai nodded in agreement—it was best to smile and nod when Sookie talked. Your tended head hurt less. "But please, continue." Sookie bowed her head and waved her hand in an ushering gesture.

"So, I opened the door thinking it was Rory.

"And it was him!" Were those stars Lorelai saw dancing in Sookie's eyes?

"It was him." Maybe the stars were in her eyes instead. "He was standing on the stairs looking up at me. All we could say was hey."

Sookie laughed. "Oh! Just like in the movies! You have movie love!"

"Thank you, Janice." Lorelai giggled and took a healthy sip of her coffee. "And then we were kissing."

"How romantic. What happened, then?" Lorelai blushed. "Right away? Didn't you talk first?"

"We talked… later."

"How later?"

Lorelai gave her friend a crooked smirk. "Much later. You know how heated and passionate he gets when he rants during town meetings?" Sookie nodded. "Imagine all that emotion and energy focused on one person: you."

"Sookie's eyes widened. "Wow. That's a pretty intense kind of focus."

"Yes it is." She drifted off to space as the wonderful night she had spent with Luke replayed in her mind.

"You two are definitely together?" Lorelai nodded and Sookie squealed again. Lorelai squealed along with her. "This is a good thing, right? I mean we're happy about this, right?"

"Very happy." Lorelai nodded. "So, they changed the cake flavor again?" Her mind drifted off once more as she and Sookie discussed the bizarre workings of the mind of the modern Connecticut High Society bride. She pictured Luke working away at the front porch to Babbette's catcalls. He would fix the rest of the house, too, because that was his way. After this wedding, she would head home, get changed, and then the two of them would finish their plans for the perfect day.

Her smiled claimed its rightful place on her lips and refused to give leave. Sometimes it was small and shy, others it was big and full and beaming. It stubbornly remained in place and Lorelai was glad for it. Everything was going to be fine.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Everything was not fine for another Lorelai Gilmore. Rory sat at her desk at the Yale Daily News, fingers flying across the keyboard. Every five minutes, her lips would form a delicate moue and she would erase the offending words from her screen with a frustrated whimper. She would shake her head, grimace again, and then resume typing. She had never found it so hard to write something in her life. Words had always come easily to her; it had been a necessity growing up with Lorelai Gilmore for a mother. She had mastered the quip at five years old. By seven, she had become fluent in sarcasm. At ten, she became proficient in double entendre. Verbal had been her thing. At age twenty, however, it was fast becoming obvious that the emphasis was on 'had'.

The article currently occupying her screen was on the state of the rebuilding efforts from the devastation caused by the recent earthquake and tsunami that had struck Indonesia. She could find no tactful way to quip and no caustic word agreed with the subject of her piece. The starving homeless of Medan cared nothing for her clever witticisms; Merpati Chadaya Sunmosu certainly would not appreciate a good tongue-and-cheek jest in the middle of her description of the poor distribution of relief aid amongst the backwoods villages.

Rory paused for a moment and thought about Merpati. She had seemed so shy and unassuming when she had entered the Yale Daily News bullpen with the ad calling for tsunami survivors to step forward to give their accounts. She seemed a kindred spirit to Rory: eager but timid, more comfortable with books and studying than adventures and parties. However, the girl who sat across from her while she gave her story as she sipped a smooth chai tea a month after agreeing to the interview seemed anything but. That Merpati was poised, resolute, steeled with a confidence born of seeing and enduring hardship. Rory envied her resolve and fortitude—things she knew she sorely lacked. Could she hope to write a story of this woman's life when she herself had never truly lived or had adventures?

The answer stared back at her from her blank screen.

Rory shook her head in defiance one last time and redoubled her efforts. She _would_ finish this article even if it killed her. She growled in frustration as her fingers furiously typed once more.

"Something wrong, Ace?" Rory grinned and leaned back into the kiss Logan offered her. Now, _this_ was a welcome distraction. She gestured angrily at her offending screen and her boyfriend's eyes dutifully followed. "What? It looks fine to me."

Rory's shoulders crumpled in defeat. "That's the point! It's not supposed to be _fine_. It's supposed to be a heart-wrenching account of the rebuilding efforts in Indonesia."

"It looks pretty sad."

His boyish grin brought a smile to her lips despite her frustrations. Perhaps that was his intent. "I don't want it to be just sad. A foreign correspondent doesn't want just sad. They inspire, they provoke, they demand change. This thing does none of those!"

"Hey, I only read a little bit, and I'm already angry."

"Oh really?" She giggled and pressed ordered the file to print.

"Yeah. In fact, I'm going to convince my dad to donate a million or two to the cause."

"Well, in that case, my work is done." Rory laughed.

"Then so is mine." He stood suddenly and held out his hand to her. "C'mon." He gently pulled her to her feet, and kissed her palm chivalrously, sending lightning coursing down her arm and spine. She loved these little playful gestures of his.

"Where're we going?"

"Logan grinned and put a finger to his lips. "It's a secret." They laughed together and ran out of the newsroom. The laughter lasted until they were outside in the sunshine and reality settled in. Logan Hunztberger had a way of keeping the real world at bay and creating a place and time where only they existed. "Is this going to be a long secret? Because, I have class in forty minutes and I…"

"Relax, Ace. It's a short secret." He conspiratorially looked around the grounds and nodded in satisfaction before grinning and kissing Rory on the lips. "That's it."

"That's the great secret?" Rory cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. He nodded and she smiled. "Good secret." She pursed her lips to kiss again, but the motioned turned into a pout as the blond boy pulled suddenly away.

"There's one more thing. You said you wanted a new job, and I thought that it'd be great if you could work for a newspaper."

"It would be great, but you need a degree."

"Or an internship." His grin threatened to devour his entire face.

"What?"

"I talked to my dad, and he's starting a new paper in Stamford. He said he'd give you a shot."

"What!"

"Ain't nepotism grand?" He chuckled and whirled her around as she shrieked in joy. "Is that a good thing?"

"Yes! Yes! Oh my God this is great!"

"And…"

"There's more?" Rory could not believe her ears. The day just kept getting better and better. First her mom and Luke were together, and now the internship. What more could there possibly be? What could her boyfriend do to top this gift?

"It pays. Not a lot. But enough to pay for gas."

"This is amazing Logan! Thanks!" She laughed as he whirled her around again. "Thank you, Logan. You are the greatest." She sobered again, as reality knocked once more. "Wait. When does it start?"

"In a week. He will work around your school schedule, too." His grin turned rueful. "My father values a good education."

"Okay so my schedule. That means I can…" She glared at Logan indignantly as he laughed. "Hey I need to figure out how this is going to work!"

"Does the planning need to start this minute?"

"Well I suppose not."

"Okay, so, let's get you to class and then go celebrate after." She nodded distractedly as she started to fidget with her purse. "We'll go to that Indian place you like." She nodded again and he exhaled heavily. "Ok, do it."

"Hunh?"

"Go ahead, call her." He grinned as she blushed in embarrassment. "I know you want to. He kissed her in parting. "I'll meet you after class."

Rory grinned and quickly took out her phone.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Lorelai looked out over the back lawn of the Dragonfly past the pond with ducks playing on its newly melted surface and bows and streamers flapping the gentle breeze. All of this was hers. The lawn, the pond, the trees, everything at the Dragonfly Inn bore her mark. It was a wonderful sensation to know she had crated something useful, something she had never done before. Before, she had provided: she had clothed her daughter and put a roof over their heads; she had found a job, and then a better one. She formed and carried out each advance in her life with the clinical calculating eye of a mother caring for her daughter. Even the Inn, to some extent, had its inception in that most primal of motivators. Later, however, as the Inn became more a reality and less a dream it became more gratifying in itself. She wanted the Inn. She coveted its ownership and genesis as much as she had pined for freedom as a child. And, now, just as she had as a teen, she had succeeded. She did it; she won. _She came out on top_. The Dragonfly was a bustling hive of activity as guests fairly raced each other to register a coveted room—they had booked every room through most of April and May, and a good portion of June was taken up as well. People called the Dragonfly their "home away from home." No matter how much she loathed such cutesy and cliché platitudes, Lorelai reveled in the compliment. She created a home, a safe and inviting asylum for those seeking solace in their lives, solace she had so desperately desired growing up.

She chuckled at the irony.

Lorelai appraised the bride as she solemnly walked down the aisle and gave a small, disproving shake of her head. This wedding was all wrong. The entire affaire reeked of the twin demands of Propriety and Etiquette. Everything was formal, rigid, planned. Planned. Weddings, Lorelai decided as the bride and groom exchanged the traditional vows in the backgrounds of her inn, should not be _planned_. Weddings should not have flowers of uniform shape; bows should not be starched to rigidity; there should be no 'sides' Weddings should be _created_. They should be about life and a celebration of joy and love. There should be laughter and tears, not solemnity and stoicism. A good wedding should be fluid, with dancing and singing as much a part of the ceremony as the actual sermon. There should be flowers everywhere: pale lavender and lily of the valley for the guests, white roses for her. The dress should either be an heirloom of the family or homemade—a true labor of love, not bought form a designer months before. It should be soft, ephemeral in its fluidity, and white. Yes, it should definitely be white and with a faint pale blue tint. The thousand twinkling lights sparkling from amidst the flowers and bows and ribbons would reflect nicely off her tiara.

She laughed at the irony.

Lorelai turned back to the happy couple and smiled as they walked down the aisle hand-in-hand. They made a cute couple and the money they paid made an equally cute clink when Lorelai deposited it in the bank. The guests cheered and threw rice and followed the newlyweds to the dining room for the reception.

Things were definitely good.

When Lorelai finally returned home, her own man was angrily cursing at something on the stove. "Yeah, and you're fat too!" She grinned and eagerly leaned into the welcoming kiss Luke offered her.

"What was that about me being fat?" he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Just lending my support." She grinned again and kissed him once more. Her knees buckled at the sensations that sprang to life as his fingers danced their way up her back. She missed this, missed _them_. "So what's cookin' doc?"

"Isn't it supposed to be 'what's up, doc'?"

She nodded. "Most times, however, when people were cooking he'd exchange the up for a cookin'," she pointed to the pot on the stove. "Ergo, what's cookin' doc?"

"Does this mean I'm Elmer Fudd?"

"Ew, and very good." She clapped her hands in praise.

"What?"

"You got a reference and made one of your own."

"Bugs Bunny, not that hard."

"Not for normal people, but for hermits like you…" she grinned and snatched the baseball cap from his head.

"Hey, you and I are together. That makes me an ex-hermit."

"Ah yes, you are a former hermit. Your hermitage is no more!"

He nodded and chuckled along with the game. "Yes. I have ceased to be a hermit. You forced me to watch that skit a thousand times. It was bound to stick," he kicked the floor in embarrassment.

"You liked it and you know it." She wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled the back of his neck.

Luke turned and kissed the spot just behind her ear. "I liked that you like it." His gruff whisper tickled the small hairs on her neck and made her knees quiver. She could get very used to having him around again.

"So, what's for dinner?" Whatever it was smelled heavenly.

"Lobster Newburg, lemon-dill soup, braised shrimp with pasta and sun dried tomatoes, and spring salad."

"Wow. What's the occasion?"

Luke kissed her furiously and ran his hands underneath her shirt. "Us."

His words were husky with passion and need. They drove her wild. "What's for desert?"

He blushed and shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't gotten to that part yet." She giggled and kissed his neck. He was so cute when he was embarrassed.

"I got a call today from Rory." The warm gooey glow that filled her being sent her flying; Rory was a success! "Logan set her up with an internship with her father."

"Logan is the no-strings guy?" The hardness in his eyes and sudden cool tone left no ambiguities as to his opinion on that subject.

"They're fully strung, now, according to Rory." She reached over and lit the candles between them. "Which, I guess I'm okay with. She's happy, and that's all that matters. But she's been so wonky lately."

"You wonder if she really knows what she wants." He set the final bowl on the table and took his chair across from her.

"Yeah, I mean, she's made such poor choices. Ever since she went to Yale, really." She sighed and shook her head, forcing the thought from her mind. "I just have to keep telling myself that Rory's a bright girl and she knows what she's doing."

He nodded. "She's happy, and that's all that matters." He popped the cork form the bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. "Are you okay with Rory working for her boyfriend's dad?"

"I've never liked nepotism. If that's what makes her happy, then I am." Her shoulders slumped in mild defeat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep to the conviction in her voice.

"She'll be fine. She's Rory." Lorelai smiled again; Luke had such faith in her daughter, such pride. He seemed almost like Rory's real father. Hell, in all but biology, he was. "So, what's the internship about?" Even in disapproval, he was interested in her daughter's life—just as a father should.

"Something about being an assistant with opportunities for reporting. She sounded vague about it on the phone. She's going to call tonight with more details." Luke nodded in interest and grimaced as he sipped his wine. "Still not a fan of wine?"

He coughed and quickly set his glass down to avoid spilling it. "Nope. But, the situation seemed to call for it."

Another warm gooey glow filled her. The situation: _them_. She liked this side of Luke: the romantic Luke, the Luke that cooked wonderful food after a day of hard work. No one saw this side of Luke; she doubted if anyone knew he could be like this. This Luke was hers, and only hers. She relished the idea that a part of him belonged only to her. It made her feel special and treasured to know that Luke revealed so much of himself to her. The more sides he revealed, the deeper her love for him grew. "So what's for…?" The ringing pone cut her off. "That's probably Rory."

Luke grinned at her childish excitement. "Go answer it."

She squealed and dashed to the phone. "Hello Spawn of my Loins."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Rory Gilmore was curled on the couch talking to someone on the phone as Paris Geller entered the room with her typical purposeful stride. Life was especially wretched this particular Monday. Chemistry—ever her downfall—was crushing her with particular vehemence today. She had performed the experiment three times and _still_ could not get within the 0.05 standard deviations of the required percent yield of product. She was convinced that the insipid blonde bimbo across from her had switched her lab equipment—she had thought the collection flask looked a little foggy when she removed it from her drawer. It was the only probable explanation for the unusual ochre color her solution turned after she added the ethyl acetate. The vapid twit no doubt thought such puerile tricks would win her the highest grade and set the curve for the rest of the sheep.

Paris snarled in frustration as her bag flew against the wall and slid to the floor. The moronic teacher's assistant who ran the class was thick enough to suggest that she had contaminated her own equipment, but her next two trials had placed her results within acceptable parameters. Acceptable parameters! As if Paris Geller would endure such jejune banality as a mediocre A. She wanted _the _A, the grade that set her apart from the rest of the flock. She wanted it, and she would get it. Paris Geller_ always _got what she wanted. She was no sheep to follow blindly the flock to the cutter's block. If that meant she had to work four times as hard as anyone else did, then so be it.

She would make the sacrifice.

She grimaced again, this time at a loud guffaw from the common room. Rory Gilmore. Bane of her existence. Her greatest rival. Her truest friend.

Her only friend.

Rory Gilmore was the only living being she considered her equal. She knew it the moment she saw the fire in the decorous waif who dared answer faster than she did in second year European History. Usually, she attacked such challenges with swift and brutal humiliation. Their eyes would bulge, and they would run. All of them. They would sweat. They would cry. They would lose.

Everyone that is, except for Rory Gilmore. She refused to back down and she never cried. Every time someone pushed her, the girl just pushed back. She matched Paris push for push, step for step. Rory never relented or gave up. She struggled, she fought, she persevered, and she won. Paris had grown to grudgingly respect and then appreciate the camaraderie and rivalry Rory offered. Because of Rory, she pushed herself, forced herself to succeed and chase the Dream when she would have slipped into ignorant complacency.

More importantly, Rory _talked_ to her and listened when she responded. The day Rory had offered her ear and shoulder to cry on in the Chilton cafeteria had cemented the bond. She had betrayed Rory, thrown her and her mother to the wolves and gossipmongers of the hallowed halls of Chilton, and Rory had forgiven her without question, without pause. Rory had seen Paris' pain; a pain she had not shone to even her closest friends. She had understood.

Now, here she sat in her room in the dorm she shared with her best friend. "Yeah, Mitchum said that I can work on the weekends and semi-freelance." Rory sounded happy. There was nothing unusual about that. "I know but I'll work it in somehow." She sighed in exasperation. "I now you miss me. I miss you too. I'll be there for Spring Break. I promise. No, Logan's going to Europe, and I'm just about Europe'd out at the moment. I promise. You, me, and a bag of Red Vines every non-sleeping moment." She laughed again. "Farewell, O Great Giver of Life." Paris rolled her eyes. The bond between the Gilmore mother and daughter was almost unnatural. They were always laughing, together or at each other. It was freakish. _No_ mother should be that close to her daughter.

Paris envied that connection.

She walked into the common room, swallowing the bitter resentment at her family that burned like bile in her throat. The last thing she needed to do was think about _them_.

"Hey, Paris, what's up?" Rory looked at her as though she were about to breathe fire.

"The fates have conspired against me today." She took out a large carton of macaroni and cheese from the refrigerator. "Today, the universe, and all the rest of Creation snubbed their collective noses at me."

"What's the problem?"

"Biochemistry."

"What about it?"

"Its continued existence isn't enough evidence to warrant my eternal enmity?"

"I've seen you have more reasons—credible reasons—for refusing to eat green Jell-O."

"I still say they make it from the byproducts of food processing plants. I can't find the article I read that proves it right now…"

"And, I'm not disagreeing with you, but I can't sympathize with you if I don't understand the problem."

"Whatever happened to female solidarity?"

Rory grinned and threw her hands to the ceiling much to Paris' displeasure. "Ya-Ya!" The waif at least had the temerity to blush in embarrassment. "Sorry, I've spent a lot of time talking to my mom. "

She waved her hand dismissively with a long-suffering sigh. "Whatever. Look, biochem isn't going the greatest and I just want you to hate it too."

"Alright. Damn biochemistry! Damn the carbon atom! Damn all metabolic processes!" She glared fiercely at Paris' offending textbook. "So wanna hear news?"

Paris shrugged as she nestled deeper into the couch. "Sure." Anything was better than thinking about her problems. Her real problems.

"My mom and Luke are back together!" Could Rory's smile be any brighter? Christ! She looked like her dad had just given her a pony _and_ a unicorn for her birthday.

Sometimes, she really hated Rory.

Still, she needed to show at least some interest. Friends did that for each other, she had found. "Luke? The guy who went to your graduation?"

Rory nodded, her smile growing even wider as she began to tell the great love story that was the Luke and Lorelai Saga. Paris allowed the prattle to wash over her and soothe her own troubled mind. It really was a sweet tale, complete with drama and a malevolent villain (who only grew more cruel and vile with each recounting). It was a true love story fit for the movies. The two had separated and returned to each other against all odds, like fate. Paris wondered if she would ever find a love like that.

She dismissed the wistful thought with a flip of her honeyed hair. Paris Geller was _not_ wistful. She was not some addled ditz who swooned over a man with a dashing smile or waited for the 'perfect guy' to come and sweep her off her feet. Those were not the required characteristics of a boyfriend. Compatibility was essential; respect, too. Some drive and ambition would be nice. Those qualities were necessary, and far too hard to come by in her opinion. Everything else was the base and licentious desires of a shallow heart swimming in a tide of never-ending puppy love and teenaged crushes.

Still, it would be nice to be swept.

"Paris, are you alright?" Concern thickened Rory's voice. How long had it been since she last responded?

"I'm fine. Excuse me if listening to the inspiring events of the sappiest love story ever told doesn't set my girlish heart all aflutter." She angrily turned away and devoured another spoonful of macaroni and cheese.

"Something _is_ wrong, Paris! You're eating dairy." Paris began to speak in her defense but Rory quickly cut her off. She was the only person who dared do that. Professors quivered in fear beneath the baleful gaze such actions would inspire. "And your loathing of biochemistry is not enough to warrant such a desperate act." She leaned back in the couch a triumphant glimmer sparkling in her eye. "Spill."

"It's just been a rough couple of days." Paris looked in her carton with distaste, wondering how to not be caught lying to her friend. "My parents are going through another cycle of will-they-won't-they and…"

"They're bringing you into it again?"

Paris shook her head. "Actually, they've left me completely out of it, and I don't know which is worse: knowing everything and feeling torn, or knowing nothing and being left with the sinking feeling that I'll be celebrating Passover in two houses."

"Divided loyalties?"

"No, I'll just have to do it twice. It's either eight days spent between two houses, or they'll both insist on having the whole holiday, and I'll have to bounce between them like a stupid ping pong ball. I cannot do that Rory. I can't. It's bad enough I have to deal with them together. But at least then it's one house, and one time." She set the carton down on the table and took a steadying breath. Rory, for her part, seemed thoroughly confused by the entire idea. Of course she would be, she loved _her_ mom. "Alright, tell me something good. I need something to renew my belief that the world is a good place."

"Oh well, I got an internship working at a paper for Logan's dad."

Paris tried to hide the disappointment in her voice "Oh that's great." Unsuccessfully.

"What? It is!"

"I thought you were all 'moral-girl'. You were going to do it on your own, no handouts. But hey, if you want to fall pray to the ethical pitfalls of nepotism, be my guest."

"I thought you'd be happy for me. This is a wonderful opportunity."

"You've always fought against kids at Chilton who did this: you've always said it was too easy to have things just given to you, or use Daddy's name and money. Why the change?"

"I want to be a correspondent for CNN; this is the kind of stuff I need to do."

"Sleep your way to the top?"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You won't allow your grandparents to pay for college, but you _will_ let your boyfriend get his dad to give you a job?"

Rory sighed, "This is different."

"How?" Paris' voice was cool, hard; she could not believe the Vestal Rory could be so corrupt or naïve.

"It just is."

She sighed again, this time in defeat. Rory could be so oblivious sometimes. Usually, that abstractedness worked in the girl's favor, and shielded her from the petty engrossments that filled the average teen's life. Now, however, Paris cursed that quality in her friend. "Nepotism just seems so evil."

"It does, however, make the world go round."

Paris dumbly nodded as she watched her friend in mute shock. Rory was changing, and not for the better. This was not good, not good at all.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Mitchum Huntzberger was big, not the large slovenly mass given to over-eating or sloth, but the largeness attributed to a man who had _much_. Too much, perhaps, but, nevertheless, he had much: much money, much power: much respect; much importance; much influence. Mitchum was a solid man, due in equal parts to his great muchness and the college football he played at Yale. His body and will, filled with the resolve and strength his position in life afforded him, refused any weakness, had, in fact, hammered such impurities form himself long ago and leaving behind a body of iron will and fire-hardened steely strength. It seemed only natural, therefore, for Mitchum Huntzberger to fill a room despite his average height and appearance. It was his way—as was the way of many who had much, and the confidence that came with such vast quantities—to quietly slip into a room with arrogant humility and observe those around while they remained unaware of his presence. Inevitably, he commanded their attention, but the damage would be done, and Mitchum Huntzberger would have the upper hand.

Such were Rory's thoughts when she had first met Mitchum Huntzberger: much. She had always prided herself on her ability to read people. Dean was safe and innocent. Jess was hurting but reaching out. Logan, despite his own protestations, was decent and loving. She was confident that while Mitchum Huntzberger was a tiger in the Pit, he was simply a perceptive businessman and was more akin to a cuddly bear than a dangerous predator. In the weeks that she had been working at the Stamford Herald, she had found no evidence to the contrary. True to the sanctified bonds of the internship, Mitchum had taken her under his wing and supported her. He reviewed each article she submitted with a harsh captiousness that would shame even most exacting and analytical of professors. Each article was returned to her marked in red, covered in notes, and with a demand for a rewrite due in an hour to make copy layout.

Her articles always went to press.

She was glad for the challenge; came to crave it. A glimmer of satisfaction in his eye, or a grunt of appreciation at a clever turn of phrase meant far more to her than a simple 'A' on a term paper, or praise from a professor. Those people _molded_ their students, forcing them to fit a standard of quality that suited only their discerning eyes. Mitchum Huntzberger, however, _forged_ his workers; imperfections and weakness were beaten from them beneath the blazing fury of his exceptive pen. They were the stronger for it.

Now, a month into her internship, Rory found herself scanning her paper for flaws with an eye honed and sharpened at the anvil of the Stamford Herald. She sniffed in frustration; this particular sentence was all wrong, it refused to rewrite itself into a better form. She shrugged, as anger flowed from her like water through a river. She _would_ conquer this. She had turned the repaving of a parking lot into a masterpiece of sentimentalism and she had transformed the saddening account of a country's struggle to heal into a personal and moving piece that touched on everyone's lives. She would succeed at this.

Warm hands wound their way around her shoulders and a pair of lips tenderly placed feathery kisses on her neck, forcing her to tare her gaze from the screen. "Working hard or hardly working?"

"Hey." Her heart skipped a beat at his boyish grin.

He grinned contentedly. "I was thinking sushi tonight, my treat."

Rory's nose crinkled in distaste. "The wasabi makes your breath all stinky and horseradishy"

"It does?" She nodded. "What do you want? How 'bout that Indian food you like so much?" Rory nodded and kissed him passionately. "I'll take that as a yes." She kissed him again. "Of course, we could just keep doing this until my dad finds us. That'll give him a nice visual for what goes on in your bedroom." Rory's cheeks burned in embarrassment and she pushed him away with a chuckle.

"Tandori chicken sounds great." She pointed towards her bed. "Wait there and we'll leave when I'm done."

"Bossy!" Logan grinned and collapsed onto the bed. "You're really digging this whole modern woman persona, aren't you?"

"It has its definite advantages. " She beamed, her momentary irritation evaporating in the bright fire of Logan's energetic and welcoming smile. Rory turned to her screen and shrugged as she saved the article. The due date for her piece was in three days, which gave her plenty of time to revisions. Dinner tonight would not hurt her piece. She linked her arm with her boyfriend's and led him through the common room passed Paris' withering glare and out into the courtyard. "What's this?" She pointed towards a black SUV filled with members of the Life and Death Brigade.

"I thought I'd invite you on a little Brigade business." Logan's eyes twinkled with mischief.

"What about the tandori chicken?"

"We'll get that on the way."

"On the way to where?"

"That, Love, would be telling." Finn's Australian accent, thickened by a great quantity of alcohol, tripped its way across the grounds. "Now get your bloody arse in here quick so we can leave! I'm bloody freezing out here!"

Rory shook her head in mock dismay; Finn could be such a character. "So, where _are_ we going? I have an article due in four days."

"You think we'd keep you out that long?" Rory shot Collin a look. "Right, well, this is different, right Logan?"

The blond boy laughed and nodded as he began to massage Rory's shoulders. "Relax, Ace. We're just going on a little outing. We'll be back in plenty of time. Promise."

She leaned into his hands, her flesh dissolving into soft pliant clay. "You're sure?" Her voice became a breathy purr of comfort as his hands continued their ministrations. She forgot everything save the ecstasy of his touch.

Three days later, Rory remembered her article.

"Oh my God!" Her fist smacked something into Logan's throat as she threw herself out of the cot of they shared. "Logan! We have to go!"

Logan's mouth worked in futility as he tired to force words passed his damaged larynx. "What's wrong?"

"My article is due tomorrow morning and I haven't even revised it! Ill barely have enough time to print it for your father!"

"So email it to him when we get back."

"People don't do that to Mitchum Huntzberger. You just don't do that to your employer period." She scrabbled over to her pack and took out her phone.

"Well, I'm your boyfriend, so you have some clout."

Rory shook her head furiously. "No. It's bad enough I got the job because of my connection with you, I'm not going to force him to play favorites because of it now." She anxiously paced about the room. "Please, please, please pick up."

"Who ever you are, you had better be dying or _very_ far away from me." Rory cringed and held the phone a little farther from her ear. Paris did not sound pleased, nor did she sound particularly tired at such a late hour at night.

"Paris, it's me Rory."

"Of course it is who else would have a reason to call me at three in the morning?"

"I know this is bad, and believe I'll make it up to you for waking you."

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh." Rory's cheeks burned in embarrassment. "Can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you print my article and get it to the Stamford Herald by three?"

"Why can't you?" The gild paused. "For that matter, where _are_ you?"

"Vermont. Logan and his friends were initiating some new members to the group this weekend."

"Oh." She did not sound pleased.

"Will you? Please?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. But, the next time Logan sleeps over, I'm going to intrude on you two just as you're about to finally reach climax."

Rory giggled, despite her shudder, as she heard an indignant squawk in the background. "Night Paris, and thanks." She clicked her phone shut and slid back onto the cot with Logan. "Problem solved." Their lips met in a kiss, and then they drifted to sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. The good folks at Warner Bros. do. I do however give all sorts of kudos, glompings, and massive amounts of MSG to the splendiferous Kal, the best beta on Earth. May her personalities forever multiply!

Chapter Nineteen

Paris sighed in frustration as she clicked off her phone. What was happening to her friend? Rory never forgot deadlines. She had practically scheduled her entire life from birth. She sighed again as she walked passed her boyfriend, ignoring the appreciative gaze he shot her. Doyle's idea of foreplay hovered somewhere between cute bumbling and slightly disturbing, and left her with a definite sense of annoyance and frustration. Still, Doyle deserved something. He was giving up sex-time for her to do Rory's errand. She twirled in a little pirouette and flashed him a brief view of her cleavage. Then, she coyly waved and stepped into the common room.

A quick print was all she needed and then she would be back in bed finishing what Rory had inadvertently interrupted. However, skills gained over years at Chilton forced her eyes to scan the article before printing. She silently cursed these skills as her mouth dropped in shock. The article was terrible. Rory had never turned in something this pathetic. It was sophomoric, infantile, and urbane. It pandered to the basest and most primitive of human conceits. And, that sentence was atrocious.

"Hey. You coming to bed?"

"In a second, Doyle. This article isn't finished yet." Paris started reading in earnest.

"So? It's Rory's piece. If she says it's done, then it's done." He looked at the screen. "She wrote _that_?" Doyle's mouth dropped in shock.

Paris shook her head in defeat. "I keep reading it to see if I'm missing something, but I'm not. It's just that bad." She pointed at the offending sentence. "If you take it away, the piece makes no sense. If you leave it, the thing is revolting." She gave a dejected sigh and printed the article. "Alright, let's go back to bed."

Doyle grinned, "We could do that." He followed her into the room and promptly smacked his head on the nightstand in his haste to remove his plaid green boxer shorts.

Paris sighed with resignation at her boyfriend's lack of grace. Sometimes, Doyle's awkwardness annoyed her. It had been cute in the beginning to have a boyfriend who seemed as skittish and unsure of his place in their relationship as she felt. However, months later, that anxious embarrassment had grown old and tired. She was comfortable with their relationship, why was he still unsure? She groaned and repositioned herself next to him to accommodate his smaller stature. She was more frustrated with herself than Doyle. He was a great guy; some would say the perfect guy. He was kind and loyal, and they seemed alike in so many ways. However, she could not be content with him. What was so wrong with her that she was not satisfied with a comfortable, stable relationship? Doyle smoothed his hands across her belly, kneading the soft flesh, and she gave a soft whimper of encouragement, which spurred him to even new heights.

The phone rang again.

"God damn it!" Paris viciously snarled in frustration and stormed into the common room, knocking Doyle off the bed. Portuguese expletives erupted from her mouth as she yanked the phone to her ear. "Yeah?" she fairly screamed into the phone. Did everyone in the free world suffer a mid-evening lobotomy? When did it become appropriate to call someone at such an ungodly hour?

"Paris?"

Oh. Lorelai. Great, what did she want? "Rory's not here. She'll be back after her last class tomorrow, so call back then."

"So you've heard from her?"

"Yeah. She's up in Vermont with Logan for the weekend. Didn't you know?" That was odd; the two always told each other everything. She idly considered checking the stars to see if they were out of alignment.

"No. I've been trying to call her cell, but it's not answering and…"

"She left it here, the battery's dead."

"Can you tell her I called when she gets back?" Lorelai's voice seemed filled with more than just typical maternal concern.

"Sure, Lorelai," Paris looked at the ceiling and cursed herself a thousand times over. There was no way she was getting sleep tonight. "Lorelai, I'm worried about her too."

"What? What's there to be worried about?" Lorelai did not feign incredulous very well.

"You filled our answering machine with not being worried." She picked up the article and leafed through it. "She's different, now. She's changed. It's not a good change, either."

"What do you mean?"

"It's her writing, mostly. She's lost her voice."

"She's gone mute?"

"Her voice," Paris rolled her eyes in annoyance. Was Lorelai _trying_ to be circumspect? Or was she just incredibly dense tonight? "Her opinions. Her spark. Rory's writing has nothing of _her_ in it anymore. It's bland and vacant. I wrote better than this in the first grade. She wrote better than this in the first grade."

"Wow."

"She's pandering to the sensationalist sex-driven mindless masses." She sighed and tossed the article back on the table. "She's lost." Bitter drops trailed unnoticed down her cheeks.

Lorelai, however, seemed to have noticed. "Paris, is something wrong?"

Paris wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to steel herself. "Just focus on your own damn kid!" She sighed and cursed herself again. Great, someone was reaching out to her and she attacked her. She had to, though; it would be a sign of weakness otherwise. Paris Geller was _never_ weak. "Look, I'm…"

"I know I'm not your mom, Paris. I'm just Rory's crazy Giver of Life. But, I am here. I'm always here to talk." Surprisingly, the woman sounded sincere.

"Thanks."

"Any time."

Paris hung up and slid back into bed. She closed her eyes and fell asleep dreaming of arms wrapped around her pressing her tightly to his chest and not around a pillow facing the other side of the room.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Lorelai set the phone in its cradle and stumbled across the blackened room as she blindly sought the stairs and the bed and comfort promised at their terminus. She found the banister instead. A scathing glance met the general direction of the offending wooden object, but Lorelai could not tell if the banister noticed or not. That only stoked her annoyance to new levels of irritation. She sighed and fell into the couch. The banister had nothing to do with her present situation; it was just sitting there, minding its own business and keeping the railing from falling off. A complete lack of light was the source of her ills. Logically, turning on a light would fix that problem.

However, it seemed oddly fitting that she should walk in the darkness towards her room. How long had she been blind to her daughter's troubles? How long had she ignored the signs of danger and warnings that Rory was having problems as she focused more and more on her ill-fated relationship with Jason, and her burgeoning love for Luke? She keenly remembered the anxiety she felt as she and her daughter spoke less and less frequently, and the horror when a hastily-dressed Dean and Rory had stumbled from the bedroom. A hastily-dressed _married_ Dean. Had she lost Rory then? Or, had this been brewing earlier and only started to surface recently? She felt her way to the coach and collapsed in its soft, inviting cushions, her mind intent on solving the Gordian Knot that presented itself to her.

"You okay, Lorelai?" Luke asked, concern filling his sleep-thickened voice as he sat next to her on the couch.

She nodded in response, not trusting herself to talk. Not yet. Later. She could talk later when she could think more and could use those word-things that Rory loved."

"You know, this is normally the point where I ask you what's wrong. You say 'nothing'. Then, I serve you the coffee, and you drink the coffee and tell me what's wrong." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gently guided her head to his shoulder. "Now, I don't have coffee made, and it's really too late for you to be drinking coffee anyway. So, how 'bout we skip the middle part and get to what's wrong?"

Lorelai smiled into his flannel; a Luke-rant, even a miniaturized one, never failed to lift her spirits. "But I like the Middle."

"What?" She had to giggle at his confused expression. He looked so cute when he tried to understand her.

"The Middle, it's my favorite part."

"Do I want to try to understand what you're talking about?"

She shook her hand and giggled again. "It's just something Sookie and I were talking about: that you and I would get our Middle."

"And that's a good thing?" She nodded. "Well, then I want a middle too." Lorelai giggled again and wrapped her arms around Luke, letting his quiet strength fill her. He wanted a Middle too! "It would great to, you know, do the whole…" His mouth worked in awkward befuddlement. "after-dating stuff." He let out a sigh and gazed deeply into her eyes. "I _always_ wanted a middle. I never want the middle to end."

Lorelai sighed in pleasant warmth. "That'd be nice."

"So what's wrong with Rory?"

"Paris says she's lost her voice." For the first time, she cursed Luke's devotion to her daughter. Thinking about Rory's problems only increased her pain.

"Is she sick… because I can get her some soup."

"No, she's not putting herself in her writing anymore. Paris doesn't' think this internship is good for Rory."

"Oh. So, what are we going to do about it?"

We. He said _we._ Lorelai smiled despite the pain in her heart. Luke sounded so confident, so sure that everything was going to be all right, she began to believe it herself. He made it impossible to _not_ believe. Together, they could do anything. "Nothing. We'll just be there for her. Right now, she's losing herself, and if we push, she'll just get more lost. She needs to find her way back."

"So, we sit and just wait for Rory to find her voice again?" She nodded. "Rory's a smart girl, she'll figure it out. I'm sure of it." Luke nodded as well, his jaw clenching with resolve.

Lorelai smiled despite the sob that threatened to break through, Luke believed in her daughter, just like a real father. That if nothing else in their relationship, was proof to her that what they had was real and was meant to be. Luke believed in her daughter.

Luke gave an abashed grin. "Y'know my mom would just give us some peppermint tea with honey if we were sick. Can't we do that for her?"

She shook her head and smiled a small, sad, smile that was _not_ hopeless, no matter what her heart felt. "If we fix it for her, we'll only make it worse. She needs to see the problem and decide to fix it herself."

"What if she makes the wrong choice?"

"We have to believe she won't. Besides, it's like you said: Rory's a smart girl, she'll figure it out." She offered him a smile she did not feel and buried her face in his flannel as Luke tightened his arms around her and softly rubbed circles into her back. This felt good, right. No matter how insane her life was or, the fears and worries she secretly harbored, Luke was there for her, protecting her, comforting her. He was her rock. "Tell me about your mother."

"What?"

"Come on you know all about my family and I don't know anything about yours." She teased at the hairs at the back of his neck.

"You know about Jess and Liz, and I guess T.J.'s included in the mix now that he and my sister seem pretty permanent."

"They're married. That's permanent."

"Not to Liz. She goes through men like Oprah goes through diets."

"Yeah, well I don't know about your parents."

"Lorelai…" His growl held a hint of warning to her ears. She knew what warning meant: he would give in and tell her everything about his family, and he would hate every minute of it. He would sift through every painful memory he had, baring his soul to her, and it would eat him up inside. She could never hurt him like that.

"Actually, you know, I'm tired. We should go to bed." She stretched and faked a yawn.

Luke grinned. "Bed sounds good." He kissed her tenderly and smoothly lifted her in his arms.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Crazy Lady." She smiled and draped her arms loosely around his neck. She could wait to find out about his family until he was ready. After all, she had a whole _Middle_ for it to happen. She rested her head on the pillow of Luke's shoulder and happily drifted off to sleep.

Sleep would not come.

Despite the warmth surrounding her, and the strong arms pressing her to that warmth, the solace of sleep remained tantalizingly out of reach. Thoughts of Rory, of Rory avoiding school, and that damned internship occupied the space in her mind that rightfully belonged to happy-dirty Luke thoughts. This was so unlike her daughter. Rory did not avoid school, or slack-off on the paper. Rory _lived _for school; she was the girl who got to her classes an hour early so she could try out every seat for maximum learning potential.

Over and over, Paris' words echoed in her mind, plaguing her, taunting her. Rory lost her voice. Rory's lost her voice. Rory's lost.

Rory's lost.

She fitfully turned in bed, burying deeper into Luke's chest. His arm tightened around her in response, pressing her closer to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep." His arm squeezed her once more and then loosened slightly as he took a deep breath and nuzzled her neck as he drifted off into wonderful Luke-type dreams. Everything was fine. She had to believe that. Everything was going to be fine.

Rory's lost.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Rory was lost

Logan was driving and she supposed that had something to do with her current disorientation. She had never been very good with directions, even when she was behind the wheel—part of her obsession with maps, and the resulting mocking from her mother, was rooted in this shameful truth. She was always getting turned around and pointed in the wrong direction. Once, after and argument with her mom, she tried to run away from home. They were still living at the Independence Inn, and she had not quite figured out how to get to town. Her mother found her two hours later crying beside the duck pond. She had though that she was crying because of their fight. She was wrong. Rory had been crying because she did not know hot to leave. She knew where she wanted to go (Andrew's Bookstore), but she did not know _how_ to get there. She had made it as far as the duck pond before she had realized this sobering fact. It was a terrible thing to know _where_ you wanted to go, but not _how_ to get there. She had felt powerless, as though she were at the mercy of forces beyond her control. She hated that feeling, hated feeling completely helpless.

Planning and maps had become her shield and armor against that paralyzing fear. Through reason and calculation, she would conquer her fear. She became determined toknow the way to her destination always, and never allow herself to become distracted from her goal. Her mother had feared that Dean would lead her astray, just as she herself had been beguiled by Christopher. But, despite his occasional outburst, Dean had been supportive of Rory's ambitions, and never made a real dent in her drive. No, she had been the one to try to sabotage the finely oiled machine that comprised her _Plan_. She had tried to give up Chilton so she could be near Dean, back when he was simply the 'man with the tanis root.' Her mother would not let her, and Dean would not let her give up. Neither would Jess, much to her mother's chagrin. Luke's nephew was passionate and tortured, an alluring mystery dragging her into velvet darkness. It threatened to debase her in its intensity, and consume her mind and soul. That danger had thrilled her, but it never touched her. He never got beneath the armor of her _Plan_.

No one could find that chink in her resolve. Not until a much older and more mature Dean had found her weak and vulnerable, beaten down by the pressures and intensity of the rigors of an Ivy League education and a shattering family life, without the support and counsel of her mother.

Rory mentally shook her head. No, that was unfair; she would not allow herself to fall into a partisan argument in her defense. Dean was no more the villain of her story than Jess had been when he had asked her to run away with him. Both men had tempted her, tested her, in her weakness. She had braved one, but not the other. She had wanted to sleep with Dean as much as he had wanted to sleep with her. Both of them had been hurting, plagued by the pitfalls of burgeoning adulthood, and confronted with the security and solace of youthful follies. That night, on her bed, on the eve of her mother's realization of everything she had hoped and striven for, she had allowed herself to momentarily stray from her dream.

She was the one behind the steering wheel. She was the one who lost the map.

Except, now, Logan was driving, and she did not need a map. She did not need to plan; he had lain out everything. This should have bothered her, but the air of chaos and adventure that pervaded their every encounter captivated and excited her with its promise of danger that would upset her ordered and planned existence. In a way that confounded her, Rory craved that danger and exhilaration with reckless fervor, daring it to undo her, knowing that it would. She knew he would lead her through the forest, with only breadcrumbs to mark their trail.

Trees, their trunks shrouded in the inky clutches of the night, hugged tight to the rough gravel of the narrow lane. Their vague shapes loomed in the stark fluorescent beams of Logan's Spider before being ripped back into the obscurity of the night's caress. Rory felt an odd anger towards the trees, an unreasoning fury that flared as briefly as the trees' lives in the light. Why didn't they fight to stay in the light more? Why did they only stay briefly in the light? They should have fought. They should struggle and rail and gnash their teeth and contend against the inexorable power of the darkness. Instead, they succumbed. The trees slunk meekly into the umber folds of the night, disappearing into nothingness once more. She despised that they relinquished control, that they placed themselves beholden to another.

They should be behind the wheel.

A small derisive snort escaped from her as she stared out her window at the helpless trees. "You okay?" She jumped in her seat, and smiled reassuringly. It was a smile that she did not feel herself. Right then, Rory was not sure of anything.

She was lost.

She sighed again and looked down to her lap. The soft sea green baby-doll dress with pale blue highlights clung to her figure elegantly in feathery folds and pleats of spun sea foam. Tiny beading and brocade, reminiscent of pearl and coral, speckled her dress like sun sparkling on the waves. The light bluish-green of the ocean complemented her own azure eyes.

Much of what Rory wore lately seemed to complement her eyes.

Logan liked her eyes. He said they were what drew him to her when he first saw her; they were brilliant and looked like tiny pools of soft blue fire. He said that he could lose himself in her eyes. She thought that was sweet, cliché, but sweet. She found it ironic that different attributes fascinated different boys in her life. Dean liked her concentration; Tristan… she had no idea why Tristan liked her, probably because she did not put up with his attitude; Jess cherished her intelligence and fire; Marty liked her sense of humor and kindness; and Logan, Logan liked her eyes.

Then again, everyone liked her eyes. Paris said as much when she wrote her "Ten Thousand Reasons Why Rory Gilmore is Perfect" list—her eyes occupied number five, right below her waif-like nature and just above her silken brown hair. Initially, Paris had intended the list to be an insult; a slam against her rival meant to trivialize and demean the girl's assets and ruin her self-esteem. It had sharply stung her in the beginning, but she came to find an odd sort of solace in the slight: her bitterest rival had found ten thousand reasons for why people would like her and want to be with her. And, while she thought some of those reasons were a bit mundane (why would anyone care about her earlobes?) she still thought the list impressive. Paris had found ten thousand reasons to hate (i.e. be jealous of) her. In a weird and very twisted way, it was somewhat comforting and complimentary.

That list brought her no comfort now.

"Rory, my parents are going to love you." Logan covered her hands with his on her lap, and gave them a soft squeeze. "You're beautiful, funny, smart," he flashed her a grin. "You're perfect. You know it. I know it. They'll know it the moment they see you."

Rory hung her head with a small whimper. "I hope so."

The car sped on into the night towards the Huntzberger mansion as the trees futilely flailed at the car.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

The wind blew heavily, sending petals from the wisteria to float and dance upon the currents like blue-violet snow whorled by a winter gust. The blooms frolicked on the drafts, darting and flitting from one errant zephyr to another with neither a care nor worry in the world. They danced in ignorant bliss of the fate that awaited them once they landed. They did not care that they were destined for the rubbish bin once their naïve games had come to an end. The petals had wrested themselves from the reserved opulence of their sconce-like prisons lining the courtyard. However, soon, the wind would die, and so too would their games. They would quite willingly put away their simple frivolities for the more sophisticated follies of maturity, much as a toddler does not realize the weight of her decision to set her dolly to sleep in the toy chest rather than on the pillow beside her head each night.

Much like the toddler, she had relinquished her own fairies and baubles of her springtide for the work and dedication of her summer years. Servants and employees became her fairies, lists and plans her baubles. Gone were her games, her larks, her dreams; the harsh disappointments and regrets of aestal maturity became her constant companions, her only bosom buddies. "_Now is the winter of our discontent," _the Bard had said. She chuckled ruefully and sipped her wine; the Bard was wrong in his imagery. Summer, not winter, was the season of regret.

And now, as summer fast approached, Emily could not help but scoff at the anticipation with which most people waited for the great season of fun and gaiety to begin. Fools. They were as foolish and misguided as the petals that swirled and capered in the night air above the patio beyond the large bay window. Nezario would have to sweep the patio tomorrow; the petals had a tendency to collect in drifts like the snow they so readily emulated. Pity, really, the drifts would be a lovely sight: soft fluffy banks of purple down collecting in the flowerbeds with hyacinth, freesia, and lavender dotting the crests like pearls on a pillow.

Regrets were like that sometimes.

Besides, the neighbors would notice and talk—the neighbors _always_ talked—and Richard's reputation would suffer. She could not have that. Richard was a businessman and needed to be respected and well thought of by his neighbors and colleagues. A blight on his yard, such as a pile of petals or autumn leaves, no matter how picturesque they might seem, would be a blight on Richard's estimation and applied not only to his home but to his work as well. A man's work is only as good as his home—or so the neighbors would say. Sometimes, she despised having neighbors or being mindful of their opinions and social graces. Sometimes, she wished she were more like Richard: oblivious to the world and its slings and arrows. Or, perhaps, Lorelai. Her daughter never gave a whit for what Society thought; she appeared so calm and sure of herself it always seemed that their dispersions washed over her like water off a duck's back.

She laughed at the irony.

It seemed preposterous to her to envy her daughter—the daughter who had a child at sixteen and ran away from comfort and family to work as a maid and live with her newborn in a potting shed behind an inn. The daughter she had insulted months ago at her vow renewal.

In all honesty, in those secret quiet places in peoples' minds where they retreat inside themselves to whisper their dreams and fears and lock them up tight in boxes made from cedar and pine, Emily had long ago confessed to herself that she did _not_ approve of Christopher. She considered her daughter well rid of the rake despite her claims and past attempts at matchmaking. However, the dunce was Rory's father and from good stock, that had to count for something. The neighbors would finally stop talking.

All of her machinations had been for naught, however. The neighbors still had a great deal to discuss. Her meltdown at the mall, her daughter's "relationships", Richard's business bungle with that farce Jason Stiles, all had whetted the neighbors' appetites for dirt. She had thought that with Richard returning to the firm and Lorelai's success with the inn, the neighbors would finally be silent. The separation had foiled such hopes. The days during her estrangement with Richard had been filled with visits from "concerned" Samaritans—gossipmongers the lot of them. They whispered about Lorelai's "condition" between banal condolences and well wishes. Twenty years later, and they were still talking about that. To think that they would not have noticed her daughter's absence bordered on lunacy. She could picture them now, standing around the drinks cart commenting about how the Gilmores were floundering, the mighty clan shattering as their house of cards crumbled. Bitsy Harwood would lean over to Missy Redgrve and whisper conspiratorially about how "that Lorelai was as uncontrollable as ever, and that she and Emily were obviously fighting—Emily's fault, no doubt." Their husbands would shake their heads in shame and Missy would poo-poo about "poor Richard" and his "dreadful homelife." They all would nod and comment on how the neighborhood was turning into a slum.

Christopher would have made all these accusations go away. Or, at least, most of them. Rory would finally have her father and Lorelai would finally have a husband the Society and Richard would approve of. Most importantly, Christopher would not hold back her daughter. Lorelai was destined for greatness and Christopher would not stand in the way of that greatness. He certainly would not eclipse her with his own goals. Her daughter would shine brilliantly—just as she was never able to. But, Lorelai had wanted more than a dullard of a bystander to her success. She had wanted a partner to stand beside her in the limelight. Luke had been that person, that partner. He would never hold Lorelai back, but push her forward, supporting her the entire way as he would Rory. Emily had seen it the first night she met him at Rory's sixteenth birthday party. He knew her girls so well that he had anticipated Lorelai's lack of foresight and brought ice to the celebration. She saw it again later that year when he had rushed Lorelai to the hospital to be with her ailing father. He took care of the girls and even comforted a woman who obviously despised him and though him beneath both her and her daughter. He supported Lorelai with her inn and advanced her money when her own ran out and her pride would not allow her to ask her parents for yet another loan.

In that secret quiet place in her mind, that same place where she had confessed her deprecations toward Christopher, she had conceded her approval of Luke. Howevr, she had shut it up in a box of cedar and pine and hidden it back in that secret corner and focused on her daughter.

A rush of pride filled Emily's chest as she contemplated her daughter's success. Lorelai was supposed to be more than a housewife with a shrew for a mother-in-law. She would graduate from Yale, marry well, and run a business—a law firm perhaps, or a brokerage. Lorelai would stand tall and bright, shining before a sea of admirers, not shrouded in the successes of her husband, her life given to supporting him.

However, Luke was uncouth and unwashed, despite his numerous qualities. He was not a suitable match for her daughter. The neighbors would talk. Christopher at least looked the part.

Emily had pursued her vision of the perfect Society family with single-minded tenacity. It had cost her that very family she had fought so hard to create. Rory was barely civil to her and her own daughter behaved as though she were a leper. Worse, actually, at least lepers were mocked in public. Lorelai seemed content to pretend that Emily had never existed.

She sighed again and watched the wind carry more wisteria petals into the drifts. Lorelai would have laughed, and probably danced in the petals like a child—dragging Rory along with her. Emily could almost see the two dancing in the night air with petals swirling around them like pixies in a fairy tale.

She could almost see herself dancing with them.

The wind picked up briefly and knocked a tree branch against the window, startling her from her reverie. Quickly, she composed herself and shut up her fantasy into the cedar and pine box in that secret quiet corner of her mind. The petals swirled higher in the air, carried by the powerful gusts. They snapped and grabbed at her dress and coat, as though drawing her back into her fancy. The petals curled around her back and caressed her cheeks; they ran through her hair like fingers and pirouetted about her in a child's ballet.

She was nearly a mile outside Hartford and heading towards Stars Hollow before the petals settled about her shoulders and she was able to see clearly. For a moment, she was overcome with panic, and her hands shook on the wheel as she thought of where she was headed and the petals that waited in the corners and flowerbeds on the patio. Emily shook her head fiercely and pressed harder on the accelerator. She wanted her daughter back, and she wanted her happy. The petals could wait for another time. Damn what the neighbors might think, let them talk.

The wind blew steadily, pulling at her coat as Emily walked the few steps to the diner. The scent of wisteria still clung to the air, masking the aroma of fries and grease. Emily felt her lip curl in a condescending sneer. The place reeked of the disgusting common food that was barely fit for consumption.

She remembered living off the things back in college and high school. Howevert, that was before time and a reproving social circle had beaten all such cravings from her. She sighed, ignoring the sudden pang as she caught the rebellious scent of onion rings and chili fries as she stepped back into a world she had though long forgotten. The few times she had entered the diner, she had always recalled the malt shop she had frequented in college. It was the place she had tasted her first milkshake and fries, her first onion rings with ranch dressing, her first hamburger with the works.

It was where she first saw Richard.

She had to tear herself from the visions the place called to mind—Richard laughing at the counter with his Wiffenpoof friends while she sat in a corner and prayed no one noticed her devouring chili fries. Back then, she would have died if anyone saw her of knew she occasioned such dives. She would die if anyone found out now. Emily had fallen for Richard instantly, he seemed so calm, so sure of himself. He was clearly the leader in his group of friends. The more she saw him, the more her admiration grew. A war began within her after those first few days: her love of fast food and the free spirit she secretly harbored versus her burgeoning infatuation with Richard. Richard would _never_ approve of a woman hanging out in a malt shop consuming onion rings and coney dogs. That was common food, reserved for common people, not the elevated elite such as them. However, ideas began to come to her, ideas of a life beyond cotillions and social engagements. Ideas that the DAR barely knew existed.

An image had begun to form in her mind of a businesswoman; articulate, intelligent, and powerful. It had been unheard of in her day. It was unrealized now.

The bell chimed again and the image shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, carried away to that box of cedar and pine on a wisteria-scented breeze. Such were the regrets of maturity. Now, she needed to prevent more regrets from growing.

The diner was nearly empty, only a few oddly attired customers and a lone waitress filled the room. Rory's Korean friend gave her a startled gasp and darted to the kitchen. Emily ignored her and her skittish nerves and focused her interest on the unwashed man who appeared to be doing his very best to ignore her presence.

"We need to talk." He opened his mouth to protest, but he nodded after she gave him a look. "Alone." He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

_A/N: Wow. OK, so three LONG years later, and I have an update. Sorry to all my readers (those of you still care, and those of you who are finding this story for the first time). What happened? Where did I go? Why did I seemingly give up on the story? Very simple: writer's block. You ever have one of those days writing when you know exactly what's going to happen, what the characters are going to say, and what the finale of the story is going to be, but everything you write is drek? Ya, that was the passed 3 years. Both stories I'm currently working on (_insert shameless plug for Unbidden and Family Album)_ ended up sounding like they were written by illiterate blind two year olds from Dunlikus. Or, were so close to the origial show that I may as well have just C&P'd the transcripts. __**Sigh**__ So, now I'm back, with this humble offering. Please enjoy! And go watch the real thing! _

Chili fries.

Heaping platters of chili fries, smothered in cheese and onions--one of the only Lorelai-approved meal-time vegetables--danced in her mind's eye beside an endless cavalcade of onion rings, over-stuffed burgers, frozen pizzas, Red Vines, and every other greasy, cheesy, crunchy, and chewy snack food. She missed them. She missed their subtle differences, their deathly delectableness, and their life-ending preservatives. How could something that keeps something from rotting—that is, prolonged the "life" of a food item—be so unfit for human consumption that it would actually serve to retard or greatly shorten the consumer's lifespan? She never considered that irony could work on a gastro-intestinal scale, but who was she too poo-poo the great cosmic joke?

The table before her contained a rather lavish meal of French and Italian delicacies on every gold-inlaid Meissan platter—each savory dish expertly prepared to meet the dietary needs of an ailing patriarch—beside crystal glasses of ruby red wine. Idly, she wondered if the supposed health benefits of drinking red wine mitigated the probability of contracting lead poisoning from the glass. She doubted it. Rory was not sure, but the theoretical abetment tannins may provide to arteries probably had no impact on insanity.

Everything about the evening had been poisonous, like a rich dessert that had soured even as Rory had begun to savor its wonders. A beautiful reproduction of the Trevi Fountain graced the final curvature of the crushed gravel driveway before the entrance hall of the mansion, lotus blossoms bobbing merrily on the ripples caused by the falling water. A riot of golden flowers clamored at the base of the Huntzberger manse, their heady scents filling the air and tinting the walls with their golden hue. She saw gold everywhere, it dripped from the ceiling amongst Carracci-inspired frolicking deities locked in the throes of passion upon clouds raining crystal beads. Gold clung to the walls in baroque wall sconces and inlaid marble tables; marble floors, auric flecks sparkling amidst aged-ivory tones; every statuette and curio was adorned with gilt. The Velazquez, a woman in coats and dresses worked with spun gold occupied, and the Guillaumin with its golden grains and vibrant fiery sun; shown with resplendent opulence on the walls. Gold throughout. That same muchness she had sensed about Mitchum months earlier filled the Huntzberger mansions with its profundity and grandness.

At first, she had been impressed, inspired, even, by the display of wealth and culture. The Huntzbergers certainly surrounded themselves with things of substance and beauty. However, the silent conversation held between patriarch and hostess in the sitting room—Shira would later inform them it was the _salon—_spoke volumes to Rory.

They were unhappy.

Instantly, and without fully understanding the source of her knowledge, she also had known that to displease the Huntzbergers, to be the source of their distemper, would be akin to strolling through a lion's den. One would survive, but would also be missing a few pieces. Rory had felt small and frail at that first fateful meeting with Mitchum, now, amidst the larger clan assembled en masse, she felt insignificant and harried, terrified of incurring the wrath of the pride assembled before her. She had felt sorry for poor Hope and Josh; they were so in love, and did not deserve the scrutiny with which they were being regarded. She felt rather guilty at that thought, which only served to add to her own discomfort. She had never enjoyed being favored above others, despite the obvious benefits and the relative comfort of her life, and usually tried to include those less fortunate. This time, however, she could only look on with pity and concern as Logan's sister and her boyfriend were raked over the coals in bitter silence.

Then, dinner.

As soon as Logan's grandfather spoke, the gazpacho curdled into a bitter paste and she had to wash the taste with sip of red wine which suddenly tasted far too much of vinegar.

"She will _never_ be one of us" Shira primmed over her own bowl of soup, daintily dipping her spoon into the broth. "She wants to _work_. What kind of life could she _possibly_ have here? With a m—the responsibilities of a wife and caretaker of the home?" Grandfather Huntzberger nodded in agreement, while Hope and Josh looked on aghast.

Rory opened her moth to defend herself, to scream, and rave and rant. A thousand arguments came to mind a million testaments to her perfection. Paris Geller's list streamed through her consciousness ready and waiting to refute their claims. A scathing and burning retort, filled with all the acid and subtlety that she could muster from a lifetime spent amongst the Gilmores—true masters of the art themselves—began to form in her mind. She had learned well her lessons of riposte and feint from Friday night dinners and watching her mother banter and twist and cajole everyone into her way of thinking. She was no wilting flower, no damsel in distress! She was Rory Gilmore valedictorian of Chilton, honored Yale student, and future Christiane Amanpour! She would not be attacked, her dreams would not be crushed or held to ridicule!

"She hasn't had the proper grooming or breeding. Look at her mother: that sort of scandal could ruin potential contacts for this family for years to come! And that town she was raised in!"

Her retort died on her lips, the fires of indignation quenched. Her most prized memories, her family, her friends, all measured and found wanting. They did not just find Rory Gilmore the girlfriend inappropriate, they found Rory Gilmore the person lacking. She was a dalliance to them, something that was suitable for Logan's Bohemian college lifestyle, but altogether unsuitable for his more mature and important adult future.

"And that ridiculous affair between Richard and Emily!" Shira continued, undeterred by Logan's fuming and her own ineffectual stammering. "Honestly, a separation, followed by a _second_ marriage, as if one wasn't enough! And the way Lorelai paraded that utter caveman of hers on her arm. Yes, the woman has business sense, but her taste in people—the taste she no doubt cultivated in Rory—is atrocious!" She turned to her darling son and smiled sweetly and benevolently. "You see, darling? It's positively ridiculous!" She turned to Mitchum. "Don't you think it's completely ridiculous?"

Rory gasped for air, her stomach churning into knots, her gorge rising in her throat. Ironic, she thought, that at a time like this, she would wax Tennyson. Ironic, that she would be in a time like this at all. Irony. That thought, her mother's ability to make light of a situation, no matter how painful or inconvenient, was a rallying cry. She_ was _her mother's daughter! She was not just Rory Gilmore. She was Lorelai Leigh Gilmore! Lorelais were fighters. Gilmores were fighters! They had just praised her mother, embedded deep within an insult, but a praise nonetheless. She could use that, she could leverage that into turning this around. But first, a joke. Yes, she needed the Gilmore whit and skill with banter!

"I don't know, it's not totally from left field." Rory took a moment to beam, and steady herself. She had won Mitchum, the veritable tiger himself. "Logan certainly does enjoy going slumming about at Yale. But, that doesn't matter. I've never really put any stock in people's families or background. Their character and drive, that's what matters; their hopes, ambitions, and skills. Rory's got those, she's got a good head on her shoulders, and she's certainly skilled." He chuckled and smiled benignly to Rory. "She's certainly very efficient and organized—just like you, Shira. Those are necessities for managing a household. The office swears she'd make the best receptionist or secretary I would ever have. And, I have to agree with them. Once she plays to her strengths and gives up the journalism dream, she'll be a fine addition to the family."

Forget Tennyson. She wanted to vomit, puke, spew, blow chunks. The room spun about her, the Carracci deities laughed, and the golden hued wall hangings ruffled and swished with mirth. She sucked as a journalist! She would be a good "secretary", she had no talent at writing, but she could manage and order and collate. She breathed deeply, gasping for air to gather a sense of calm and stave off the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"You guys are insane!" Logan, her hero, to the rescue. "She's perfect the way she is. I love her! And you... you... all you had to do was be polite. You couldn't even..." He shook his head with frustration and grabbed Rory's hand, "C'mon, Ace, we're leaving."

"Logan! Please, try to understand, sweetheart!"

And, the two lovers fled across aged marble floors, passed prized pieces of art, and gold-hued walls. They ran down worn granite steps and around the Trevi Fountain with its auric flowers and cloying aromas to a black spider with four wheels that sped back through a dark and enchanted forest. The gravel grinding beneath the spider as the wind and trees hurried them away from the Huntzbergers and their wrath like they did in the fairy tales of old.

Silent tears fell as Logan sped down the highway towards New Haven, and the relative safety and comfort she would find there. She lost herself in the unbroken streak of car lights and tree line, abandoning herself to the nameless, useless, nonexistence such anonymity offered. These people would not hate her nor judge her. To them, she was simply a girl in a car heading to New Haven. Perhaps, lost, perhaps with a purpose, but in either case, they would see a girl in a car with a boy. For now, that was all she needed. "Ace, things will be OK. They'll accept you, in time. They'll love you. You'll see. And, until then, we won't... we won't talk to them. OK, Ace?" Rory dumbly nodded, losing herself in his reassuring words. "They're stupid snobs and..." he sighed and grinned. "So your mom wore a shirt with a rhinestone penis to dinner at your grandmother's?"

"Pull over." Logan looked at her in confusion. "Pull over!"

"Rory, this isn't the best place...."

"Pull over!" She frantically scratched at the door handle, jerking manically to open the contraption. Finally, mercifully, the door gave and she lurched out into the open air scarce moments after Logan had pulled into a parking lot, and emptied her stomach. Gazpacho and red wine spilled passed her lips, a physical manifestation of mental anguish. She felt Logan's hand gently pulling her hair out of the way, and robing soft circles on her back.

"It'll be OK, Ace. It'll be OK." A flask was pressed into her hand once the heaves had passed and she took a hardy sip, relishing the burn of whiskey scouring her throat. "Let's get you back home." She nodded, dumbly, and allowed herself to be guided back to the car and off to the solace of her room.


End file.
